


Making Time

by Lillyjk, lola381pce



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clint is tempting, Homeless Clint Barton, M/M, Phil is torn, Power Dynamics, ROTC Phil Coulson, UST, college student Phil Coulson, construction worker Clint Barton, construction worker Phil Coulson, past sexual assault/non-con (implied), slow build but I don't know not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:31:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3131279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillyjk/pseuds/Lillyjk, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lola381pce/pseuds/lola381pce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sure thing, Bossman. I’ll get right on it.” Barton says and Phil can hear the sarcasm dripping from every word. “Wouldn’t want to bend a rule or disobey a reg, College Boy. They might take away your model student award if word gets out.”</p><p>Fucking dick, Phil thinks. He starts to turn his back on Barton and then thinks better of it. Let’s his eyes drift back down Barton’s bare chest to the sweat dampened trail of dark blonde hair that points like an arrow down the flat plane of his stomach to disappear underneath the waistband of his jeans. His belly button is pierced with a plain silver barbell and Phil can see the dark ink of some sort of tattoo just peeking up over the edge of one hipbone. “And put your shirt on while you’re at it. You look like a goddamn juvenile delinquent.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this started after somebody posted a very delicious picture of young Clark Gregg looking all buff and construction worker like on tumblr. I immediately got an idea about a story where Clint and Phil where young guys butting heads on the job site. Lola381pce and I decided to throw it around thinking we would have something quick and porny. Umm, it took a decidedly angsty turn with no sex yet but it's on the horizon we swear. Posting here as we get to chapter lengths but in between we'll be updating on tumblr.

 

Fucking Barton kid, Phil thinks for maybe the dozenth time in the course of the work day. Barton’s on the roof balancing on the eaves and juts of the McMansion in progress like a monkey while he goes back and forth transferring the heavy Spanish tile where it needs to go. He’s supposed to be strapped into a safety harness, but it’s ungodly hot and he evidently shed the harness along with his shirt and now he’s down to nothing but work boots and a pair of bluejeans that ride dangerously low on his lean hips.

The kid’s just this side of eighteen and a pain in the ass. A pain in Phil’s ass since he’s the junior foreman on this particular crew and the guy in charge of making sure safety regulations are followed. He’s spent his summers, weekend and breaks from school working for Jessup Construction for the last four years. It’s hard work but the pay is better than he can get anywhere else and old man Jessup has a healthy respect for the military so he always accommodates Phil’s ROTC schedule. Phil has one more semester to finish out his degree and then he’ll head straight to the Army. This is his last summer with Jessup and he takes his job seriously. Even if it means busting Barton’s balls. Again.

****  


Barton’s a new addition to the crew and rumor has it that the old man has a soft spot for the kid. Phil’s not sure exactly what that means because he’s never known Jessup to have a soft spot for anybody, but Jessup just sort of smiles indulgently when Barton makes smartass comments. The kid is always doing stupid stunts on site to get a reaction and it’s making Phil’s job turn into one big babysitting session. Half the time he shows up wearing the remnants of last night’s eyeliner and smelling like a mix of cheap liquor and cigarettes. But Phil has to admit that the kid’s a hard worker even if his attitude does get under Phil’s skin.

****  


Phil waits until Barton scrambles back down to the ground before he shouts his name and waves him over.

****  


As quick as Barton seems to move when he’s working, it seems like he takes his goddamn time walking over to where Phil’s waiting and it’s just one more way the kid puts Phil on edge. Phil uses the time to pick up Barton’s discarded safety harness, letting the heavy duty black nylon and stainless steel hang from a couple of his fingers.

****  


“Hey Ivy League, what can I do for you?” Barton says.

****  


Phil resists rolling his eyes but it’s a near thing. He’s not sure why Barton’s got this perception of him as some sort of silver spoon hot shot when Phil’s here working his ass off alongside him but it’s getting old real fast. In the two weeks they’ve been working together, Barton’s called him either “Ivy League” or “College Boy” every time he’s addressed him.

****  


“Look Barton, I know you were some kind of carnie kid or something but I don’t care if you’re an acrobat or monkey or whatever you still have to follow the safety regs.” Phil looks pointedly at Barton’s bare chest. Phil would burn to a crisp if he spent the day on the roof without his shirt but Barton’s skin is golden in the sun. “Why aren’t you wearing your harness?”

****  


Barton shrugs. “Circus actually, not carnival and I don’t need it. I’m not going to fall. It just gets in my way.”

****  


Phil scowls. “Regs are regs. Put it on or I’ll put it on for you.” He shoves the harness against Barton’s chest with a little more force than necessary. He gets a palm full of sweaty bare skin before Barton reaches down and takes it from him, his pale eyes full of barely contained anger.

****  


“Sure thing, Bossman. I’ll get right on it.” Barton says and Phil can hear the sarcasm dripping from every word. “Wouldn’t want to bend a rule or disobey a reg, College Boy. They might take away your model student award if word gets out.”

****  


Fucking dick, Phil thinks. He starts to turn his back on Barton and then thinks better of it. Let’s his eyes drift back down Barton’s bare chest to the sweat dampened trail of dark blonde hair that points like an arrow down the flat plane of his stomach to disappear underneath the waistband of his jeans. His belly button is pierced with a plain silver barbell and Phil can see the dark ink of some sort of tattoo just peeking up over the edge of one hipbone. “And put your shirt on while you’re at it. You look like a goddamn juvenile delinquent.”

****  


Barton smirks, “Can’t keep your eyes off me?” He steps right into Phil’s space, close enough that Phil can smell the sweat mingled with the cigarette Barton was smoking on break. “Maybe you want to help me put it on.  Pull the straps of that harness nice and tight. Better yet, you could help me take everything off. Get your hands all dirtied up on somebody like me, huh? Then run back and tell your college buddies all about it?  No,” Barton sneers at him.  ”You wouldn’t tell ‘em about me.  I’d be your dirty little secret.”

****  


Phil can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. Phil’s spent way too much time watching him since he joined the crew. And maybe not just for work related reasons. Too much time wondering what that skin feels like, what that smart ass mouth would look like around his dick. He puts his mouth right up against Barton’s ear. “Listen you little punk, you better stop playing with fire before you get what you’re asking for.” He hears the little hitch in Barton’s breath and then he’s pushing past him hard enough that the kid stumbles, knees hitting the ground when Phil walks away.

****  


Barton remains on his knees for a few seconds not realizing he’s dropped his head to his chest automatically going into a submissive posture before suddenly it hits him making his head snap up. Fortunately, Phil’s already turned his back and begun to move away. A light band of sweat beads along Barton’s forehead and he breathes in sharply a couple of times before getting shakily to his feet.

****  


Fuck no! There’s no way he’s submitting to the College Boy, Mr. fucking Ivy League. No fucking way. Then he remembers the way his hands felt on his chest even for a few seconds burning into the skin, the way his eyes took in his body roaming from his chest to his stomach, the way his voice sounded in his ear his breath ghosting across it as he told him “…stop playing with fire before you get what you’re asking for.”

****  


He shivers, his dick immediately beginning to harden at the memory and he only just manages to keep the whimper from escaping. He thinks about his lips wrapped around Ivy League’s cock taking him in his mouth deeper and deeper until it’s resting against the back of his throat. The kid’s breath becomes short and shallow, his heart hammering in his chest.

****  


Barton feels a hand on his shoulder and spins round. It’s Ned, one of the other guys on the crew. Barton looks at him stupidly not realizing he’s spoken so Ned repeats himself. “I said are you okay? You look like shit, man.”

****  


Barton frowns at him and shakes his head annoyed and horrified he’s been caught. He jerks his shoulder from below Ned’s hand and says, “Naaa, man. I’m fine.” And stalks off back to the house he’s working on.

****  


By the time Phil reaches the shack, he’s breathing heavily – partly from anger, partly from just thinking about the kid. He throws open the door and walks to his desk where he slams his hard hat down on it. Fucking circus freak with his fucking invincible attitude! And that mouth of his! Phil leans on the desk, his head falling forward slightly as he thinks more about that mouth, as he thinks more about Clint in general.

****  


He can feel his cock begin to harden as he remembers how Clint walked towards him with that slow, languid gait barely giving a fuck that he was about to get his ass chewed. Phil licks his lips and smirks at the image of his mouth clamped on the kid’s ass cheek biting and sucking it bringing a purple bruise to the surface.

****  


His body began to react in earnest as he thinks about reaching round to the kid’s cock stroking it firmly as he fucks him from behind. He can smell the sweat and cigarettes from earlier and imagines the the salty taste of Clint’s skin…

****  


“Why have you got such a hard-on for the kid?”

****  


Fuck! Phil flinches, his eyes snapping open in a momentary panic. Is his erection actually showing? Then sense kicks in because his back is to the voice and there’s no way its owner can see his dick from that angle. It’s Mr Jessup himself. Phil remains in position with his hands flat on the table and breathes out a heavy sigh trying to get his thoughts and his body under control before he speaks.

****  


“I have a ‘hard-on’ for the kid because we have a good safety record here, Mr Jessup, and I don’t want some asshole circus performing monkey making this site into his personal big top putting his life and the lives of my crew into danger.” He pleased that his voice sounds pretty normal…well, it’s not completely broken at least. He turns to face his boss perching his ass on the edge of the desk folding his arms across his chest.

****  


“Ex-circus performing monkey,” Jessup corrects scratching the scruff on his jaw as he lounges messily in the chair at the other desk in the shack. He’s a huge man; some of the muscle mass is surrounded by a softness now but he’s still fit and more than capable of getting his hands dirty on a construction project when he wants to.

****  


Phil smiles and nods accepting the correction.

****  


Jessup stares at Phil for a few moments sizing him up. He’s not much older than the kid he’s talking about but they’re oceans apart in some respects and peas in a pod in others. Phil holds his gaze not in the least intimidated where others would be shitting their pants by now. The old man has a certain reputation. Barton holds his gaze the same way but with more insolence however he’s got an easy-going, hard-working attitude that Jessup likes.

****  


Phil’s also worked hard to get the site to one of the best safety records in the city; the crew likes and trusts him – not easy when you’re the guy who makes them follow the regs. He’ll do well in the Army. “I like you, Coulson. You don’t fuck up and you get things done. Do what you need to do with the kid but he stays.”

****  


And with that, Jessup pulls his bulk out of the seat and leaves for a tour round the site. Phil rolled his eyes. Great! That meant his baby sitting duties weren’t going to be over anytime soon and as he glances out of the window his eyes catch Barton back up on the roof moving the Spanish tiling around. At least he’s wearing his t-shirt and harness again even if his attitude still sucks. His dick twitched in his pants again at the word in association with Barton. Who knows, maybe that wasn’t going to be such a bad thing after all…

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Brat,” Phil mutters. He reaches out and Clint can't suppress a shiver when his hand wraps around the chest strap of his harness and yanks him forward until he's close enough to feel the heat from the other man's body. Not quite touching but close enough that they'd be pressed together chest to chest if Clint leaned forward even just a little. He puts his face right up to Clint's, his blue eyes steady. “Here's what you can do for me, boy. Don't jump off the ladder.” He gives Clint a little shake, his fingers pressed tight against Clint's chest between the strap and the tshirt. “That little stunt means you get to stay late and clean up.”
> 
>  
> 
> Phil smiles at him, not that bland smile Clint's seen him give Mr. Jessup but one that's got a dark edge to it. “You keep pushing me, Barton, running that mouth of yours. I'm going to start thinking you like it when I push back.” He gives Clint one more little shake and then lets go, hand pulling back slowly from the harness. “Come by the office when you get done with clean up and you can pick up your check.” He glances down at his watch. “Shouldn't take you more than an hour or so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've included a picture of a safety harness to help you get an idea of what Clint looks like all rigged up. It looks like the one pictured below except his is solid black.

 

Clint spends the rest of the afternoon on his best behavior. The harness is a pain in the ass but if that's what it takes to get Mr. Rules and Regulations to back off, Clint's willing to do it. The guy rubs him the wrong way with his clothes that never seem to get dirty even though Clint's seen him do as much heavy lifting as everybody else. There's lots of muscle under those jeans and tshirts with shoulders that seem too broad for an otherwise lean body.

**  
  
**

Phil's got that slightly superior air like he's above it all, like this is just a way of passing time until something better comes along. Of course something better is just around the corner for somebody with a college degree and a guaranteed officer's position in the Army waiting for him. Not like Clint. This job is the best that he can hope for and he only landed it because he was in the right place at the right time when old man Jessup's truck got a flat tire. The guy'd been on his back, changing his tire when a couple of punks had decided to rob him. Clint had put an arrow through the hand of the one waving around the switchblade.

**  
  
**

Clint still wasn't sure why he'd gotten involved except the pricks were making a lot of noise and the burned out warehouse Clint had called home at the time wasn't quiet on a good night. He'd been on his own since Barney split a couple of months ago and after the mess with Trickshot he didn't dare try to hook back up with the traveling show again. Up until two weeks ago he'd been crashing wherever he could find a dry spot and grabbing meals at shelters.

**  
  
**

Jessup had been grateful enough for Clint's help that he'd offered to buy him a hot meal at the diner down the block. Something about the old guy made Clint talk more than he should and they'd spent the night lingering over coffee. Dawn was breaking when Jessup finally got up to go. He'd opened his wallet and slid a crisp hundred dollar bill across the diner table to Clint before he left. He'd told Clint in his gruff voice that he could take the money and do whatever he wanted with it but if he was smart he'd use it to buy some steel toed boots. He'd scribbled an address on a scrap of paper and told Clint to show up the next day ready to work with boots on his feet if he was interested in changing his situation.

**  
  
**

Clint had spent hours staring at the money, trying to decide it the guy was legit or if it was just another rabbit trail. In the end he'd spent eighty-five dollars buying the cheapest pair of steel toed boots he could find. He'd scouted out the address and found another place he could hunker down and stow his gear that would be close enough to walk to and from the job site. There was a truck stop a mile in the other direction that would suffice for showers and laundry duty.

**  
  
**

The fifteen dollars in his pocket helped him make it to his first payday but he'd had to use most of his paycheck to buy a couple more changes of clothes. He hadn't started hustling yet, but it had been a near thing. He was too far from the shelters to make it in for meals without bus fare that he couldn't afford. There'd been a couple of nights when the gnawing in his belly had been so harsh that he'd slunk in the side door of one of the seedier bars and flirted his way into drinks and bar food with promises he didn't deliver on.

**  
  
**

It still might come to hustling if College Boy didn't get off his ass and made him lose this job. If he could just keep it together another couple of weeks he'd have enough set aside to afford one of the little one bedroom efficiency apartments.

**  
  
**

Speaking of, he could feel the other man's eyes on him as he unsnaps the guideline to his harness and shimmies back down the ladder at the end of the day. He's always watching Clint, waiting for him to fuck up. His cool blue eyes are appraising every move Clint makes and always finding him lacking. Only sometimes Clint could swear that Phil's eyes are lingering for another reason altogether. It's that little something that he sees there that makes Clint lock eyes with Phil as he leaps the final three rungs of the ladder landing lightly on his feet less than a yard in front of him.

**  
  
**

Clint runs his fingers along the nylon of his safety harness where it bisects his chest. College Boy's eyes follow the movement, mouth pulling into a tight line. The worn out white tshirt Clint's wearing underneath the harness is tissue thin and transparent with sweat. His nipples are hard, the dusky points clearly visible through the fabric. “Look Bossman,” Clint says. “All bound up just like you ordered.” He flicks a finger along the heavy duty stainless steel ring in the center of his chest where the straps join together and then drops both his hands to the buckle around his waist.

**  
  
**

The waistband and straps that fasten around each thigh have steel grommets set into the nylon every half inch or so. The straps are fastened tight enough that the faded denim of Clint's too small jeans are practically indecent where it pulls across his thighs and crotch. He ducks his head and looks up at Phil from under his eyelashes. Even with his face shaded by his hard hat, Clint can see the pink flush spread across his cheeks, the sprinkling of freckles disappearing as he face goes red.

**  
  
**

Clint rocks back on his heels until his back is propped against a stack of two by fours, his hips jutting out. He doesn't know why he can't stop fucking with the guy, but maybe it's that blush that seems so at odds with the otherwise cool demeanor. He's going to jack around and lose his job but he can't seem to stop himself. He pitches his voice a little lower and says, “I think telling me what to do gets you all worked up, Ivy League. You got something else you want me to do for you?”

**  
  
**

Not that he would Clint thinks, but he wants the other guy to want him. There's a part of him that wants the other guy to try something. Just so he can turn him down.

**  
  
**

Probably.

**  
  
**

“Brat,” Phil mutters. He reaches out and Clint can't suppress a shiver when his hand wraps around the chest strap of his harness and yanks him forward until he's close enough to feel the heat from the other man's body. Not quite touching but close enough that they'd be pressed together chest to chest if Clint leaned forward even just a little. He puts his face right up to Clint's, his blue eyes steady. “Here's what you can do for me, boy. Don't jump off the ladder.” He gives Clint a little shake, his fingers pressed tight against Clint's chest between the strap and the tshirt. “That little stunt means you get to stay late and clean up.”

**  
  
**

Phil smiles at him, not that bland smile Clint's seen him give Mr. Jessup but one that's got a dark edge to it. “You keep pushing me, Barton, running that mouth of yours. I'm going to start thinking you like it when I push back.” He gives Clint one more little shake and then lets go, hand pulling back slowly from the harness. “Come by the office when you get done with clean up and you can pick up your check.” He glances down at his watch. “Shouldn't take you more than an hour or so.”

**  
  
**

Phil turns his back on Barton and makes his final rounds around the site while the crew knocks off for the day. It's a big job, half a dozen estate sized houses in a new subdivision and Jessup's handling all of it. It's the biggest job he's worked on and it takes him thirty minutes to walk the perimeter and make sure all the heavy equipment's been locked down for the weekend.

**  
  
**

He uses the time to try to cool down, working to keep his mind off the Barton kid. Fuck, Phil doesn't know if he wants to fight him or fuck him or better yet, put him over his knee for a bareass spanking and then a good fucking. He's infuriating. Something about him makes Phil's stomach knot up. Half the time the kid looks like he needs a good meal and the rest of the time he looks like he needs his mouth washed out with soap.

**  
  
**

By the time Phil makes it back to the temporary office they've set up in one of the construction shacks, the grounds are deserted. It's Friday night so the crew has checks in hand and a weekend of no work ahead of them. The weather is holding up so far so they've been able to stick to a five day workweek on this project. In the distance, Phil can see Barton hauling a wheelbarrow full of garbage to one of the dumpsters.

**  
  
**

He feels a little pang of guilt when he realizes he's probably made the kid miss out on his ride home. Phil frowns, most days Barton hoofs it to work. Phil's passed him walking in on the main road a couple of times. Ned or one of the other guys gives him a ride to wherever home is after work though. Tonight even though there's still plenty of light out, there are storm clouds moving in and Phil figures the kid's in for a soaking.

**  
  
**

“Shit,” Phil mutters to himself. It's a couple of miles to the edge of town and even if Barton's sole mission in life seems to be driving him nuts Phil's still not the kind of guy to make him walk home in the rain. He'll offer him a ride, he decides. Make him take it even though he's sure to refuse. Order him if he has to. Mind made up, Phil turns back to the end of the week paperwork waiting for him on his desk.

**

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So which would you prefer? A hand job or a blow job?” He says it so matter of fact that for a few seconds Phil can’t say anything and just stares at him. “Fuck sake, College Boy. It’s a simple question.”
> 
>  
> 
> “What makes you think I want either?” he says eventually.
> 
>  
> 
> “You gave me a ride, so I’ll give you a hand job or a blow job – up to you. But just so as you know I give fucking excellent blow jobs.” He grins at Phil but the expression on his face wipes it clean off.

Fucking College Boy! BANG! Fucking Mr Ivy League! THUMP! Fucking Mr Rules and Regulations! CRASH! Clint punctuates each muttered curse with broken slates, timber cut-offs and other assorted garbage being thrown into the wheelbarrow never missing his target once which is quite a feat considering how pissed off he is. Still he was called Hawkeye in the circus for a reason. Three rungs goddammit! He’s jumped from ten times that height inside and outside the ring. Asshole!

 

With a grunt he lifts the handles of the wheelbarrow and transports the garbage round to a dumpster where he drags it up the ramp tipping the contents in with a thunderous clatter which satisfies him just a little bit. As he turns to go back down again he notices it’s begun to get really dark and looks up to feel the first of several fat rain drops exploding against his face. Well if that doesn’t take the fucking cake! And he’s missed his ride home too. Ned wasn’t exactly going to stick around to wait while he picked up shit for the Boss Man. Now he’ll have to walk a couple of miles in a downpour to get back to the shithole where he’s staying. Thank you, Mr Ivy League.

 

For a few moments his mind flashes back to Phil with his hand gripping the harness, the heat where his fingers touched his chest and he gets that rush again which goes straight to his cock. It’s made worse as he thinks of how Phil looked at him as he got in his face about him enjoying Phil pushing back. Yeah, he’s right about that…he does take some perverse pleasure in it. There’s something very frightening but very hot about the way Phil’s eyes burn into his and how his voice is calm and yet chilling at the same time. Clint’s dick gives a not-so-subtle throb in his pants and that, because that’s the way his day is going, is when the rain decides to come down in sheets. Clint makes a quick survey of the site and determines it’s tidy enough. If Mr Ivy League isn’t happy he can get his prim and proper ass out here and finish it himself.

 

Clint props the wheelbarrow on its end with the inside facing the dumpster so it doesn’t fill with water and, after taking his hard hat off, starts to sprint towards the shack for his check. Lo and behold, there’s the man himself leaning against the frame of the door looking smug. He steps aside as Clint slows to a jog and takes the couple of steps in one stride.

 

“You gonna give me shit for that too, Boss Man?” he asks shaking his head spraying rain everywhere while making his hair stand up at odd angles.

 

Phil looks at him strangely for a moment and Clint can’t read his expression but he does note that Phil’s eyes roam slowly from his wet hair down to his wet t-shirt which leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination; pecs and six pack are clearly on show. He also notes that the pink tinge has appeared on Phil’s cheeks again. Fuck yeah, he’ll take that as a win!

 

Stiffly Phil holds out Clint’s check and says in a voice that’s raspier than normal, “No…I’ll consider us off the clock.”

 

Clint steps closer to Phil, who doesn’t flinch, and snatches the check from between his fingertips. He folds it in half and sticks it in the rear pocket of his jeans never taking his eyes off the other man. Clint has to give him his due, even though he’s standing in Phil’s space with a soaking wet, see-through t-shirt on and nipples that would take your eye out, Phil doesn’t move, even when Clint steps closer so that they’re nose to nose, he doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Off the clock, eh? So does that mean there are no rules?” he smirks. “Don’t you wanna discipline me over your desk?”

 

Phil says nothing, his breathing remains steady and his eyes stay on Clint’s and after a few moments it’s Clint who looks away first, his bravado suddenly deserting him like a dog with its tail between its legs. The intensity in Phil’s eyes is too much for him, it has his heart racing and his breath caught in his throat. Usually when a guy wants to fuck him, he holds him down and takes what he wants. Sometimes Clint enjoys it sometimes he’s not got much of a choice. It’s the way things are, it’s the way things have always been. But Phil looks at him like Clint’s the only person in the world and it’s the most incredible and the most terrifying thing he’s ever experienced…so he looks away.

 

The spell broken, Phil finally asks him “Do you have to get anything?”He’s still leaning against the frame of the door. Clint shakes his head, too afraid to speak afraid that his voice will betray him.

 

“Then let’s go.”

 

“What?”

 

“I need to lock up and then I’ll drive you home.”

 

Clint is bewildered. One minute he’s getting his ass reamed (he wishes) by Phil, the next he’s offering to give him a ride (he wishes). Fuck! A ride home! No way he’s going to let Ivy League see where he lives.

 

“Nah, it’s fine, College Boy. I’ll walk."

 

“Brat,” Phil returns. He throws him the keys to his pickup and tells Clint to take it onto the main road – any further than that and he’ll kick his ass. Clint flashes him a grin then runs to the rusty blue pickup, the last one left in the yard. Revving the guts out of it which makes Phil cringe he speeds it onto the tarmac and screeches to a halt.

 

Phil locks up the shack and sprints to the main gates of the site pulling them closed then chains and locks them, giving the padlock a tug to makes sure it’s secure. The security guard, a friend of Jessup's, will be round later to do another check of the site.

 

He opens the driver door and is surprised to see Clint in the passenger seat with his seatbelt on… well, well. Phil climbs in and shakes his head getting rid of the worst of the rain. He’s pretty much as wet as Clint now and the kid can see the dark wiry hair of his chest through the soaked t-shirt. What a fucking turn-on!

 

“So where to?” Phil asks as he puts his own belt on, checks his mirrors, indicates and pulls away from the sidewalk like a good College Boy.

 

“What?” Clint says stupidly, dragging his eyes away from Phil’s chest.

 

Phil rolls his eyes. “Jeez! Where do I drop you?”

 

“Oh yeah, the truck stop. I got some stuff I gotta do.” He adds before Phil can ask why.

 

A few minutes later they’ve arrived and Phil’s about to pull over to the sidewalk when Clint requests that he pulls up round the back. Phil frowns but does as he’s asked. When the pickup draws to a halt Clint unfastens his belt and turns to Phil.

 

“So which would you prefer? A hand job or a blow job?” He says it so matter of fact that for a few seconds Phil can’t say anything and just stares at him. “Fuck sake, College Boy. It’s a simple question.”

 

“What makes you think I want either?” he says eventually.

 

“You gave me a ride, so I’ll give you a hand job or a blow job – up to you. But just so as you know I give fucking excellent blow jobs.” He grins at Phil but the expression on his face wipes it clean off.

****  
  


It’s not that Phil doesn’t want either from Clint. In fact he’s been imagining both (and a lot more) all day but he wants Clint to give them because he wants to and not because he thinks he should. He doesn’t know whether to be angry or heartbroken that Clint thinks it’s the right thing to do after someone gives you a ride. The anger wins.

 

“Get out,” he says quietly facing the windshield again, his hands gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. Clint’s not sure he’s heard him right.

“What?”

 

“Get the fuck out. Now!”

Clint’s stomach lurches. Of all the shit that’s happened today, he’s finally going to get canned over Mr Ivy League being too proud to accept a hitchhiker’s thank you from a circus boy. His face burning with shame Clint makes a grab for the door handle. Just before he opens the door Phil speaks again.

 

“Do you do this for the guys on the crew?” He’s furious now at the thought that one of his crew may have taken advantage of the kid.

 

Clint stays quiet for a while. Only one guy accepted and apparently he was so disgusted he never gave Clint a ride again – either that or he enjoyed it too much. The others just told him not to be an asshole and moved on. Ned even exploded with laughter before cuffing him on the back of the head but he continued to give him a lift anyway. He shook his head and muttered no. They sit together in another bout of silence until Clint says “So I guess that’s me fired then.”

Phil sighs and suddenly drained of anger lets himself go limp in his seat like deflating balloon. He takes one hand off the wheel and wipes his face then says softly, “No Barton. We’re still off the clock. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Clint opens his mouth to say something else, to apologise maybe, but in the end he just opens the door and slams it shut behind him. Fuck College Boy! So long as he’s got a job on Monday, fuck him!

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

Phil watches the kid run through the deserted parking lot to the back entrance of the truck stop. The rain is still coming down in sheets and Barton's high stepping to keep from ruining his work boots. He pauses briefly under the overhang at the door, silhouetted by the light.

 

Soaked to the skin with his clothes clinging to him, Barton's compact body looks even smaller. Younger. More vulnerable. He's about Phil's height but all lean muscle where Phil is thicker through the chest and broader through the shoulders.

 

Barton pushes through the heavy glass door without a backward glance, and Phil only catches the odd glimpse of him in the stray bit of windows not covered with beer signs and ads for snack foods.

 

Phil's stomach is churning but his cock is still half hard in his pants. He's disgusted, but he doesn't know if it's at Barton or himself. He wants what Barton is offering, wants to feel those plush lips around his cock, those nimble fingers stroking him. He wants to teach the kid a lesson. He wants to see if Barton can back up all the promises he makes with his nasty mouth and fuck-me eyes.

 

Then he thinks about Barton trading hand jobs and blowjobs in exchange for rides and wonders what the fuck happened to the guy to make him think so little of himself. Hell, it's one thing to offer it up because you want to get off, because the other guy makes your dick hard and you both want to have a good time. It's something else entirely if you only do it out of obligation.

****  


Five minutes pass, then ten and Phil reaches down and cuts the ignition off. The rain is falling at a steady pace. He doesn't know why he's still sitting here. Barton's probably long gone by now, either took out walking out the front door or caught a ride from someone else. Phil's throat tightens at the thought of that. The truck stop is probably full of men who'd be glad to take a fresh young thing like Barton wherever he wanted to go, especially if the kid makes it a habit of repaying his rides the way he offered to repay Phil.

****  


Phil's a month shy of twenty-three and Barton's eighteen but the way the kid had looked at him when Phil asked if he'd done it for the other guys on the crew made it seem like the kid was world weary and on the verge of exhaustion. Like Phil was the naive one. Like Phil needed a hard lesson in how the world really worked. Phil, who was a scholarship kid from a family that didn't have much, but still couldn't wrap his head around what motivated the kid.

 

Barton reminds Phil of the stray dog that hung around out back of his rented duplex when he'd first moved in a couple of years ago. The dog was missing an eye and hobbled around on a bad leg but he'd still come nosing around for scraps. He was desperate enough for food to let Phil get close even though it made him tremble and shake. The first few times Phil had tried to pet him, the dog had submitted to it by cowering his head but his teeth had been bared the whole time. It had taken Phil months of putting out food and careful scratches behind the ears before he'd been able to gain the dog's trust. Now Lucky was fat and lazy and rolled over for belly scratches at Phil's feet when he got home.

 

Phil shakes his head, he does not have time for this shit. He's not going to get in the kid's business. He's not going to go sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. He's got another seven months in this town before he's out of here for good. Two more months this summer with Jessup and then the job will be back to weekend and breaks while he finishes up his last semester of school before the Army. He probably won't see Barton after school starts back. Phil can put up with his smart mouth and keep him in line for a couple of months without letting it go any further.

He reaches down to crank the truck back up put finds himself grasping the door handle instead. “The hell with it,” he mutters and then he sprints through the rain to the truck stop. He'll just take a look around, see if Barton's still inside. If he's there he'll drive him the rest of the way home so he doesn't have to think about the kid walking through the rain or catching a ride from someone else. If he's not, Phil will grab a six pack and head home to Lucky and put the whole incident out of his mind.

Phil's been in the truck stop a few times before, it's near the job site and the food is decent. It's close to both the interstate and the city limits so it's a pretty big place. Part of it is set up a like a typical convenience store, then there's a section in the back with bathrooms complete with pay showers, a small laundromat and lockers for truckers who stop through as part of their regular route, the far end houses a small diner that serves up hot food.

 

Phil scans the aisles of the convenience store section first but doesn't see any sign of Barton. Most of the booths in the diner side are occupied, but the kid is not among the crowd. Phil's stomach clenches up again. He's gone then. Phil's just turning back toward the row of beer coolers when he catches a glimpse of Barton's dark blonde hair out of the corner of his eye.

He's coming out of the shower room in fresh clothes, his wet things pressed against his chest. He heads to the row of lockers and fumbles one handed with a set of keys until he gets one of the large long term lockers on the end open. It's about three times the size of a standard locker.

****  


There's a niggling sense of something at the back of Phil's head as he watched Barton. Something about the scene that doesn't sit right. Why the fuck is the kid showering at a truck stop? And from the looks of things, he's setting up house here. Phil watches as the Barton carefully drapes his damp clothes over a couple of hooks on the inside. He takes a newspaper out and wads it up into large balls and stuff it down into the inside of his work boots before setting them up on a shelf in the locker.

Barton's dressed in another pair of raggedy jeans and a tshirt, a battered looking pair of sneakers on his feet in lieu of the boots. He pulls one of those throwaway rain parkas out of the locker, the kind that are maybe a step up from a garbage bag as far as waterproofing goes, and pulls it on. Next out of the locker is a long nylon bag with a shoulder strap. Barton opens the end of the bag and stuffs a thin blanket inside.

Shit, Phil thinks. He recognizes the bag. Hell, he's got one just like it. It's one of those one man pop-up tents.

Barton's homeless.

It all makes sense now.

**

Clint methodically goes through his meager possessions before he closes up his locker. The locker rental is a luxury but it keeps his stuff safe and dry and he doesn't have to worry about somebody ripping him off when he's not there. He strokes a hand along his bow and quiver, stowed carefully in the very back. A few more weeks and maybe he'll have a real place to keep it. If he can keep a paycheck coming and live as lean as possible, he can pull it off.

 

He's not expecting the hand on his elbow gently pulling him around, or College Boy's steady blue eyes on his. Later he thinks it must have been the shock of it all that makes him comply.

 

“How long?”

 

“What?” Clint says. He tries to pull his arm free but Coulson's hand tightens, holding him still.

 

“How long have you been living out of a locker? Sleeping in a tent?” The voice is deceptively calm.

 

Clint flushes. Why oh why of everybody did it have to be this guy, Mr. Bright and Shiny Future, who found him out? Sure, Jessup had suspected but he'd never come right out and asked, he's let Clint cling to that one bit of pride. “Fuck you.” Clint mumbles, eyes dropping away from those bright blue ones. “I'm off the clock, Boss Man.”

 

“I'm trying to...” College Boy starts to say and so help him Clint's going to punch him in his smug mouth if he says help because Clint's not a goddamn charity case. His whole body tenses up with anger. He's doing just fine. Mostly.

 

Coulson breaks off midsentence and lets out a little exasperated huff. “Nothing's easy with you, is it? How about this. Get your shit and get in my truck. You're coming home with me. Understand?” His hand on Clint's elbow tightens down so hard that Clint knows he'll have bruises. The thought makes him shiver, makes the anger transform into something just as heated.

 

He looks up at College Boy from under his lashes and steps into him so they're chest to chest. “Rough? That what you like?”

 

Coulson leans into him, crowds him back until he's trapped between the locker door and College Boy's unmovable body. “If you think I won't drag you out of here kicking and screaming, you're dead wrong.” He puts his mouth up to Clint's ear, his breath hot against his skin. “Nobody would stop me either, brat. You know it as well as I do.”

 

Clint's dick is hard in his pants, one of Coulson's thighs pressed right up against it. What the fuck is this man doing to him? Clint wants to drop to his knees right there and beg. He wants College Boy to use him up, he wants to see his cheeks go pink and his eyes go hazy. Clint knows the asshole is just toying with him, probably going to take him home and make him clean his house or something. He knows he should tell him to go to hell but instead Clint licks his lips and says. “Yeah, okay. Just let me grab a couple of things.”

 

Coulson holds him there against the locker a few seconds more, his thigh hot and heavy against Clint's cock. His eyes are locked on Clint's, those damn see everything eyes of his. Finally he pulls back and steps away.

 

Clint can feel College Boy watching as he stows some gear back in the locker and pulls a few other things out. He still doesn't know exactly what's going on here. Is Coulson taking him home for a fuck or is this some kind of rescue the homeless kid thing? He can't get a read on the guy and it's making him crazy. For all Clint's talk, his sex experience has been mostly limited to quick fumblings. He gets the idea that Coulson would be anything but quick, those strong hands holding him down and guiding him and stretching him out.

 

He puts the padlock back on his locker and turns to follow Coulson wordlessly back through the truckstop and out to the truck. The rain has slowed down a bit but it's still wet and miserable out and Clint can't make himself regret a night that doesn't include bedding down outside.

****  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Barton,” Phil growls in warning but his voice is cracked and his face is flushed with arousal betraying what he’s actually feeling. He sneaks a look to the side and the little fucker is also staring ahead but he’s got the widest shit-eating grin on his face. 
> 
> Clint drops his bag between his feet and starts to rub himself in time with the way he’s touching Phil. It’s such a fucking turn on that this time Phil does swerve across the centre line slightly getting a blast from oncoming traffic for his trouble.

The ride to Phil’s duplex is short but full of tension.  Clint’s cock is still hard in his jeans but he’s managing to hide it fairly successfully with the overnight bag that he’s hurriedly thrown together under Phil’s watchful eye. He casts his eyes sideways and down barely hiding a smirk; College Boy isn’t quite so lucky going by the fucking enormous bulge in the front of his jeans. Apparently he’s pretty well hung which does nothing to help Clint’s own erection but certainly makes his mouth water.

 

He wonders how much he could get away with while Ivy League’s attention is on the road; how much he _should_ try to get away with. He doesn’t want to mess things up if it’s Ivy League’s intention to fuck him from now until Sunday but he can’t help that self-destructive streak he seems to have by wanting to screw with him while his hands and mind are otherwise occupied.

 

Speaking of his hands, they’re fucking gorgeous! Strong and broad with long, thick fingers square at the tip – earth hands Madam Rosa from the circus would have called them. Mostly he sees them encased in work gloves (except when he held the harness against his chest and a few other times) but now that he studies them as they grip the wheel, he’s desperate for them to be holding his cock or gliding over his body or holding him down with one rough, calloused palm while his fingers of his other hand spread him open; Clint shudders.

 

Phil is looking straight ahead keeping his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel trying not to fidget. His dick’s straining against his zipper and it’s making the drive home more than a little uncomfortable. He tries his damnedest to will it away but it’s not playing ball. He almost snorts out a laugh at his inadvertent wit.

 

It’s not his intention to do anything more than feed the kid and give him a bed on the couch for the night. The weather’s pissy wet and he doesn’t want the brat not turning up on Monday because he’s caught a chill. At least that’s what he tells himself. The reality is, he wants nothing more than to have his cock sucked until his eyes roll back in his head and then fuck the brat into the mattress. He almost jumps through the roof of the truck when he feels Clint’s hand on his cock palming him through his jeans. It takes every bit of control he has to keep his eyes open and the truck on the road but it’s a near thing as is the groan he’s just managed to keep from escaping.

 

“Barton,” he growls in warning but his voice is cracked and his face is flushed with arousal betraying what he’s actually feeling. He sneaks a look to the side and the little fucker is also staring ahead but he’s got the widest shit-eating grin on his face. Clint drops his bag between his feet and starts to rub himself in time with the way he’s touching Phil. It’s such a fucking turn on that this time Phil does swerve across the centre line slightly getting a blast from oncoming traffic for his trouble.

 

“What’s up, Ivy League, beside the pole in your pants? Can’t handle it?”

 

Phil grabs Clint’s wrist and reluctantly removes his hand from his crotch dropping it in the kid’s lap.  “I don’t intend for this to be the day I die nor is it the preferred method of my demise. Keep your hands to yourself, brat.”

 

Clint pouts and folds his arms across his chest but within a few seconds the grin is back. ‘ _...preferred method of my demise’_ Really? Who the fuck talks like that? Ivy League! He stretches his arms above his head feeling his t-shirt rise up baring his belly and showing off the light dusting of hair on his golden skin. He wonders what it’s doing to the other occupant of the truck. He looks across at Phil and catches him staring at his midriff before looking at Clint’s mouth and then his eyes; what Clint sees in Phil’s expression almost makes him come in his pants – it’s desire pure and simple. Phil tears his gaze away and fixes his attention back to the road again while Clint lowers his arms, his face burning. This game is getting a little too dangerous in more ways than one.

 

A couple of minutes later, Phil indicates and they pull off the road into a driveway of a small duplex – Phil’s home. He doesn’t move, suddenly afraid to get out of the truck afraid of what might happen when they walk through that door especially after all that’s gone on during the drive over. But he’s started this ball rolling and he’ll have to deal with the consequences. He looks over at Clint who’s waiting for guidance.

 

Clint’s still not sure what Phil wants from him. College Boy’s body seems to be saying one thing while his actions are saying another. Clint’s pretty sure he’s gay or maybe bi so it’s not that he’s confused sexually which means it must be something to do with him, Clint, and that’s a whole different issue. He’s used to men taking what they want then walking away leaving him sore and bruised and sometimes worse but he won’t take that from Ivy League. His head snaps up when he realises Phil’s said something and is getting out the truck. He picks up his bag and follows him; time to find out.

 

Phil barely gets the key in the door and swings it open before Clint is on him faster than Lucky with a pizza. Fuck! Lucky! He tries to tell Clint about his dog but it’s kinda difficult with Clint’s tongue in his mouth. He makes an effort to pull the limpet from his face when suddenly it disappears of its own accord with an “Ack!” He opens his eyes before being dragged onto the floor with Clint as he falls like a ton of bricks after having been caught on the back of his knees by the dog; the fucking ninja pizza dog! Wincing at the dull throb of his skull after inadvertently cracking it on the door as he landed, he looks across at the kid and sees him lying on the floor with Lucky standing over him staring intently. Well this could be a make or break moment!

“The fuck is that?”

Phil’s relieved Clint doesn’t sound afraid...more mystified and he doesn’t know whether to be hurt on Lucky’s behalf or his own. Admittedly, the dog is not the most attractive of creatures. Even following several baths he still looked as though he’d crawled from a dumpster (smelled like it for a while too almost making Phil regret his decision to take the animal in); and he only has one eye; and he walks with a permanent limp; and generally he looks as though some mad scientist experimented with lots of different dogs before ending up with Lucky. But Phil loves the mutt and if the two don’t get on...

Finally there’s a whimper from Lucky and the dog is all over Clint, licking his face and batting him with his paws which makes the kid laugh and start to wrestle with him. Phil smiles letting go of the breath he didn’t even realise he’d been holding which was actually a good thing; between it and the blow to his head he was remarkably close to passing out. He takes Clint’s and Lucky’s interaction as a good sign; Lucky is wary of people and doesn’t often accept them, certainly never this quickly. The only other person he’s ever this glad to see, excluding Phil, is Mrs Delmonico from next door who looks after the dog when Phil’s at work.

Eventually Lucky realises Phil’s home and with a weird squeak and his tail thrashing back and forth he pounces on Phil landing on his stomach knocking the wind from him. The dog does everything he can to sit on Phil’s lap before throwing himself on his back, paws in the air for belly rubs with which he happily obliges much to Lucky’s joy who continues to make blissful squeaks and grunts.

Clint watches the display with approval and a shy grin on his face. Ivy League may be a hard ass on the site with him but apparently there’s a streak of humanity in there somewhere. In Clint’s experience if an animal trusts you, you’re usually worth knowing. If not then a policy of avoidance is generally a good plan. For a moment as he looks at the two of them he hopes he’s making similar noises with Phil in the not too distant future and feels his face growing hot at the thought of it.

Eventually Lucky tires himself out and, fully on board with Phil lying on the floor, flops down beside him and rests his head on Phil’s stomach with a contented sigh.

“So apparently you have a dog,” says Clint from his own position where the two (three) of them have taken up residence.

“Eh, yeah. He’s a stray that kinda stuck around. I guess he likes you,” responds Phil rubbing the back of his head which still smarts. He takes his hand away and has a look; no blood but there’s an interesting lump beginning to form.

“ _That’s_ liking?”

“That’s Lucky!”

“What’s so lucky about it?”

“No that’s his name.”

Clint pauses for a beat looking at the mutt. “That’s fucked up!”

Phil lifts his head to look at Clint who has the same idea and the second they make eye contact they start to laugh; hysterical, tension-easing laughter that comes straight from the belly. It sounds good. Lucky sighs, looks at Phil with disgust for having dislodged him from his position of comfort and flounces off in an apparent huff. The dog’s behaviour sets them both off again.

After a short while, when both have finally stopped with just the occasional giggle spilling out, Phil gingerly sits up to lean against the door. Nah...he’s fine, no dizziness. Maybe he should just to take wearing his hard hat round the house when Lucky and Clint get together. He feels a presence beside him that isn’t his dog. Clint nudges Phil’s shoulder with his own. “You look good when you laugh.”

Phil ducks his head and looks at Clint, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. Clint’s heart leaps but when Phil reaches up and gently touches his jaw, sliding his hand up so that his thumb brushes Clint’s cheek bone it seems to both miss a beat and race at the same time.

“Brat,” Phil whispers as he pulls him in for a kiss. His lips are dry yet soft against Clint’s, barely making contact but the jolt that shoots through him is breathtaking. It’s everything he could have hoped for but nothing he could have imagined. He closes his eyes and resists the urge to take control instead letting Phil lead the dance.

It’s a soft kiss, just a meeting of lips with slow, easy movements that promise so much more. Clint’s mouth opens slightly as an invitation to Phil to enter. The tip of Phil’s tongue gently explores and that initial touch of tongues sends a shiver through both of them. He pulls back slightly encouraging Clint to make the next move; and he does. His tongue brushes down the side of Phil’s, shallow and light at first then more forcefully, building anticipation and excitement. Slowly it becomes deeper and more demanding.

Clint moans and moves position so that he’s straddling Phil’s thighs. Phil kisses him again increasing the intensity of it until Clint’s not sure where he ends and Phil begins.  One hand snakes under Phil’s damp t-shirt to touch bare skin which feels like it’s burning under his fingers. He skims lightly over his stomach feeling the muscles flutter as he follows the line of hair up to his chest. His hand stops its exploratory journey and his fingernails scratch through the hair seeking out then teasing and pinching Phil’s nipple.

Phil’s breath hitches at the touch. His cock which had never really softened was back to straining at his zipper but as much as he wants Clint’s lips round his dick giving him blissful release, he wasn’t going to have it on the floor of the entry to his apartment. He breaks away from Clint who whimpers at the loss of contact. “Slow down,” Phil pants his face flushed with arousal. “You sure you want this? Want me?”

Completely lost in the moment, Clint pushes back towards him, his lips swollen, his eyes blown. “Need you, want you,” Clint moans trying again, dropping his hand down to Phil’s crotch slowly rubbing his dick. “Fuck! You’re so hard. I wanna suck you off, wanna make you come.”

Phil groans almost giving in. Instead he takes hold of Clint and flips him onto his back beneath him, pinning a wrist to the floor with each hand. One of his thighs is between both of Clint’s pressing against his hard cock. It’s not a show of aggression but it _is_ a display of dominance and Clint’s eyes open wide and his breathing becomes laboured. Right now he’ll do anything for Phil...anything.

Phil leans into his neck, his breath ghosting over Clint’s skin making him shiver. “Slow. Down.” It’s not a request, it’s a command; there’s an edge to his tone but somehow it also sounds reassuring and Clint relaxes under Phil’s grip. “We have all night; we have all weekend if you want it. But right now I’m going to get out of these wet clothes and shower.”

Before he gets up he nuzzles along Clint’s jaw to the soft skin beneath his ear and licks it sending more shivers through him. Releasing Clint’s wrists and carefully removing his thigh from Clint’s cock he pushes himself up and stands in one smooth movement.

Clint’s still lying there trying to get his emotions under control. He’s reeling from Phil’s words, “ _We have all night; we have all weekend if you want it._ ” Fuck yeah he wants it but he’s got no idea if College Boy means it. He figured if anything, Ivy League would want a quick fuck and then kick him out on the street before things got awkward but now...He lifts his head and looks at Phil holding his hand out to help him up. Even though he doesn’t need the assistance he accepts it anyway using it as leverage to stand...now he’s not sure what Phil wants; apart from a fucking shower apparently.

“I won’t be long.” And he gives Clint another lingering kiss before heading off through the first door on the left. Admittedly, he showered and changed at the truckstop whereas Phil’s still in his work clothes smelling of hard work and sweat mixed in with the rain. To Clint he smells great but he guesses Phil thinks differently. Clint supposes he can’t really complain but fuck’s sake, his timing sucks. And when it dawns on him Clint doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry; no-one had ever wanted to be clean for him before.

With that pathetic realisation on his mind, Clint looks round the room. It’s pretty much what he would have expected of Ivy League; clean, neat and tidy. What he didn’t expect was the huge framed poster of Captain America. With anyone else he would probably have laughed and seriously taken the piss but with Phil it just seems kind of right. Mr Rules and Regulations; Mr Join the Army and save the world; Mr rescues stray dogs and ex-circus freaks. With a surprising amount of respect he runs his fingertips over it before heading for the kitchen. May as well make himself useful while he’s waiting.

It’s one of the quickest showers Phil has ever had and although he cleans his cock and balls thoroughly he doesn’t linger there for long even if his dick is desperate to be milked. He wants Clint to make him come and he shudders at the thought of it. Hurriedly drying himself off, he pulls on a clean pair of jeans that had been drying over the towel rail and goes back to Clint.

Clint senses Phil entering the room and turns to face him with a smart comment but it dies on his lips and all he can do is stare. Phil’s wearing a pair of worn jeans faded and tight in all the right places and nothing else; his feet and chest are bare and he doesn’t know which is the bigger turn-on. Either way he’s fucking hot.

Phil smiles that crooked half-smile at Clint and once again his stomach flips and his heart stumbles. “Coffee smells good.”

“Fuck the coffee,” Clint growls. No more; he can wait no more.

Phil nods in understanding or agreement, Clint doesn’t care which, and crosses the room slowly with a presence that’s breathtaking to the younger man. Phil’s eyes are on Clint’s burning with such intensity it removes Clint’s ability to speak and roots him to the spot. He gently puts his hand the centre of Clint’s chest and walks him backwards until he’s against the wall. He reaches out his hand and brushes his thumb against his cheek as he had done earlier and Clint melts into him opening his mouth for a kiss with which Phil obliges. This time it’s neither soft nor gentle. It’s intense and unrelenting and leaves them both panting and desperate for more.

Now it’s Phil’s hand that reaches under Clint’s t-shirt but his experience over the brat shows when uses his blunt fingernails to scrape across the soft skin of Clint’s belly making him hiss as the muscles ripple and dance. He grins against the younger man’s lips as his reaction. Not letting up, he licks around Clint’s lips with the tip of his tongue before thrusting it in as though fucking his mouth. At the same time he cups Clint’s balls in his hand and squeezes gently but firmly.

Clint throws his head back against the wall making a dull thud but the strangled cry of “FUCK!” he lets loose tells Phil he’s two baskets up in this game of one-on-one. Relentlessly he continues moving from Clint’s mouth to his jaw where he nibbles and kisses until he reaches that soft spot just below his ear and once again he licks a stripe up it as he palms Clint’s cock through his jeans scratching it with his nails and rubbing its length. Clint moans long and loud his eyes rolling back in his head until, one perfect squeeze of his dick later, he yells, “Fuck ME!” Slam dunk!

“Soon, brat!” Phil promises and begins pushing the shirt up Clint’s belly exposing his chest. Holding him upright against the wall Phil dips his head clamping his lips over Clint’s left nipple flicking it with his tongue before grazing it with his teeth. Clint’s hand grips tight to Phil’s shoulder as he trembles and cries out at the sensation. Pinching the wet nipple between his fingers Phil transfers his mouth to the other one repeating the process. Clint’s shaking against the wall; his body’s become a mass of raw nerve endings at Phil’s touch.

With Clint’s help, Phil yanks the t-shirt over his head and revelling in the sight of all that soft, golden skin and dusting of hair, he kisses his way down his body until he finally sinks to his knees and unfastens Clint’s belt ripping it from the loops in his jeans and throwing it to the floor. The button and zipper are next, being popped and pulled in one confident motion. He tugs Clint’s jeans over his hips and down to his thighs and is delighted to find no underwear. And fuck! What a sight! His cock is full and thick and glorious and already a trail of pre-come is dripping from its head.

One last time Phil asks if Clint’s sure this is what he wants. In reply Clint’s pulls his jeans down to his ankles and steps out kicking them away displaying all his lean, muscled glory which Phil drinks in with his eyes. Fuck but the brat is beautiful!

He looks up at Clint silently asking permission and he nods Phil to continue reaching down to run his fingers through Phil’s hair. Phil takes Clint’s engorged dick in his hand then licks the pre-come from the tip never taking his eyes off Clint’s. His hips buck forward at the contact but its nothing compared to Phil taking him in his mouth, his tongue sliding along his shaft before taking him deep. The groan Clint makes encourages Phil to take him deeper still until the head is nudging the back of his throat before pulling back and doing it all again leaving a trail of slick from root to tip. He could do this all day and Clint’s dick is particularly satisfying and he loves the way it feels on his tongue.

It’s Clint who breaks eye contact when he presses his head against the wall clenching his jaw to keep from coming too soon and embarrassing himself. Jeezus fucking Christ! His breath hitches as Phil’s talented mouth and tongue suck and lick along his shaft firmly and with consummate skill. It’s fucking amazing! It’s also fucking annoying. Like everything else Ivy League seems to do he’s fantastic at giving head. And what the fuck did he just do with his tongue that makes Clint yelp like that? If that wasn’t enough he suddenly finds Phil’s tongue swirling around his ball sack while his mouth sucks at the soft, velvety skin at the base of his cock as his hand strokes his shaft. Once again, Clint’s eyes roll backwards, his palms flat against the wall, nails digging into the plasterwork.

More pre-come oozes out of his slit and Phil moves away from Clint’s balls to lap it up. He can taste a change in its flavour and consistency and knows the brat is getting close to coming. He takes his cock in his mouth again sucks him deep and firm, and with one hand cups his balls gently squeezing feeling them move in his palm; the other he uses to pump Clint’s shaft in time to his sucking. It’s finally too much for Clint and before he can warn Phil, he cries out grabbing a fistful of Phil’s hair as he comes down his throat. Phil keeps sucking and swallows it all and when he’s finished he looks up at Clint with a filthy expression on his face as he licks his lips then cleans his cock with tongue.

Clint’s legs are trembling and the rest of his body is pretty shaky too. He’s never come like that before; fuck! He’s never had a blow job like that before and his chest heaves with every breath. He looks at Phil as he stands up and wants say something to wipe the smirk from his face but instead grins at him and lets go of a small laugh. Fuck even that’s wobbly. Afraid to let go of the wall just yet, he leans his head against Phil’s warm shoulder.

Phil gently grips the back of his neck, stroking it with his thumb, and rests his cheek on Clint’s head.

“You okay?”

Clint nods, knowing that if he talks, it will come out as a croak or something worse. Phil smiles in response and nuzzles against Clint’s head. Neither of them speak for a moment until Phil breaks the silence. “I’m not looking for just a suck of my dick or a quick fuck either. I don’t know what I’m looking for but right now I want the bratty kid that’s pissed me off every single day for the last two of weeks to stick around…if he wants to.”

Clint doesn’t move, doesn’t speak and Phil thinks he’s said the wrong thing. Just when he’s about to pull away and apologise, Clint rests his hands on Phil’s hips and lifts his head to face him slanting his mouth over Phil’s in another wet and demanding kiss. Phil happily responds humming contentedly until eventually, Clint pulls away and looks him in the eye and with the brattiest look he can summon asks him “Okay Ivy League, how about I show you what _real_ mind-blowing head is?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry chapter 5 was ages in happening...got a bit carried away with the boys and rl was a bit nuts. Hope you enjoyed it anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You're doing so good,” Phil praises, just barely holding back the endearment on the tip of his tongue. God, he didn't know what he expected out of Clint but it wasn't this sweet thing he has all spread out at his mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so I intended to put some plot in here but it basically ended up as pure porn. Make sure to read the updated tags as there are some slight hints of previous non-consensual episodes in Clint's past. Nothing graphic but implied. Another more plot driven chapter is on the horizon but here's some porn to tide you over.

Phil arches an eyebrow and doesn't bother to hide his bemused smile. Trust the brat to turn a blowjob into a contest. He knows Clint's deflecting so he won't let himself think too much about Phil's words. It's easier for the kid to keep some distance with nicknames and his smart ass comments. If that's what it takes to make him relax and stop looking like he expects Phil to toss him out the door the minute he gets off, Phil can live with it.

Phil reaches a finger out to run along Clint's bottom lip. It's kiss-swollen and too pink and Phil has plans to feel it around his cock in the very near future, but right now he wants something else. “I'm gonna let you show me how well you can suck me off soon, but I've got something else in mind for tonight.” He juts his hips forward so that Clint's bare skin is pressed intimately against the rough denim of his jeans, and smiles when Clint lets out a low moan at the sensation against his over-sensitized dick.

“How about I fuck you instead? I want to keep that mouth of yours empty so I can hear all those noises you make when I get my dick in your ass. You up for that brat?” Phil leans in close, his gaze locking with Clint's. The kid's eyes are beautiful, an odd mix of blue and green and gray that broadcast every emotion. Phil watches for any sign that it might be something Clint doesn't want but sees only raw need in their depths.

Clint's breathing hard, his spent cock already starting to twitch at the thought of Phil getting inside him. “Yeah,” he says. “I'm up for everything you've got.” He has to look away from the intensity in Phil's gaze, College Boy always looks like he sees more than what Clint wants to show him. Clint dips his head and presses a kiss against Phil's collarbone, something shy and sweet right up until the moment he grazes him with his teeth. Clint smiles against Phil's skin and keeps going, nipping and licking until Phil starts to squirm.

“Fuck,” this time Phil's the one who moans and he's goddamn tired of waiting to take what Clint's offering. The brat always pushes him a step too far. Clint's hands are still on Phil's hips and even though Phil's got him backed against the wall, Clint manages to make Phil feel off balance. Clint bites down hard again on the tender skin right over Phil's clavicle and then sucks and Phil knows he'll have a hell of a hickey tomorrow but he can't bring himself to care.

Phil reaches down and grabs Clint's wrists and pins them against the wall. When he takes a step back, the kid is looking up at him through his eyelashes and smirking. He doesn't resist Phil's hold, if anything he relaxes into it.

“What's wrong? I thought you liked it rough, College Boy?” Clint can't resist the taunt, he likes watching Phil struggle to maintain control. Phil's always so cool and calm but there's something bubbling just under the surface that seems to respond to Clint. Watching Ivy League's discipline slip, knowing he caused the crack in his facade, makes something dark and slick rise up in Clint's belly.

Yeah, Phil thinks, watching the way Clint's eyes widen just a little bit when he tightens his hands down on the kid's slender wrists. He can play this game. He can feel Clint's pulse beating against his thumbs, the way it speeds up when Phil says, “You're gonna find out how I like it, brat, when I split you open with my cock.”

Clint's eyes flutter closed, a flush riding high on his cheeks. He's pulling against Phil's hands, but not to try to get away. No, he's arching his chest and hips up from the wall trying to get closer to where Phil's body is just out of reach. The feeling in his belly rolls out through his limbs like warm honey and he wants Phil to put truth to his words.

Phil catches his breath at the picture Clint makes. Christ, he's a sight. Naked, dick already gone half-hard again, he's all golden skin stretched over muscle on a body that's used to hard work and not enough food. The only hint of softness is the roundness of his cheeks that give him a baby face that will probably follow him into his thirties. Looking at him makes Phil think thoughts that he shouldn't have.  
Phil swallows down the words rising up in his throat, the last thing the kid wants is for Phil to start telling him how pretty he looks.

Instead he closes the distance between them and takes his mouth in a kiss that's meant to make the brat feel as off center as Phil is. There's nothing gentle about it, not like the kisses they shared earlier. Instead it's a harsh meeting of mouths where Phil pours every frustration into nipping at that full bottom lip and pressing his tongue inside to explore every inch.

The harder Phil pushes, the sweeter Clint's response. His lips part obediently to let Phil in, he applies the barest bit of suction to Phil's tongue. Clint thinks this is what he was made for, to be kissed and touched and wrung out by this man. Phil may only be a few years older but Clint's a novice in the hands of a master when Phil touches him, kisses him. There are no thoughts of resistance or being a smart ass or doing anything other than existing in this moment.

The way Clint melts into him and gives up all control like he's handing Phil the keys to the kingdom makes Phil feel dangerous and out of control and desperate. The goddamn kid is nothing but contradictions and Phil is used to order.

He wrenches back from the kiss and lets go of one of Clint's wrists so he can grasp his chin and press down hard enough that the kid finally opens his eyes.

Hell, Clint's pupils are blown. The proof of just how far gone the kid is makes a fresh surge of arousal roll through him and Phil knows he's about thirty seconds from fucking the kid dry against the kitchen wall.

“We gotta...bed,” he starts but he might as well be speaking a foreign language for all the comprehension on Clint's face. Phil forces himself to take a deep breath and then stops trying to talk at all and just half drags the kid behind him to the bedroom.

Clint's stumbling over his own feet and Phil's not doing much better and, thank Christ, Lucky stays out of their way. Phil pushes Clint down on the bed and pauses just long enough to kick off his jeans before climbing in after him. Phil knows he has to slow down, take his time, but he's trembling like he's a fucking virgin.

Spread out on Phil's bed, Clint's limbs are heavy. His dick is hard, pre-come leaking from the tip in a steady stream. He wants to feel Phil's weight on him, pushing him down. He needs the stretch and burn of Phil's fat cock inside him even though he knows it will bring more pain than pleasure. He can't make his mouth work to say the words, instead he does the next best thing and turns over so his body can speak for itself.

Clint rolls over on his stomach and Phil loses his mind. 

The kid's ass is a work of art, round and firm and made to fill his hands. The dark ink of a tattoo, the same one that he'd noticed peeking over the waistband of the kid's jeans what seemed ages ago, trails the entire curve of one hip. It's an arrow, Phil realizes, heavily stylized and ornate. 

The head is on Clint's hipbone, the shaft wraps around his side and the fletching and nock end at the small of his back. Phil can't stop himself from bending forward and tracing the black lines on Clint's skin with his fingers and then with tongue. He rests his thumbs in the twin divots on either side of the small of Clint's back and presses a kiss squarely in the center.

The brat's been silent other than the occasional moan or panted out gasp, but now he lets out a ragged, “What are you...” that trails off into a low growl when Phil spreads him open and lets the flat of his tongue rub over the little pink bud of his asshole. He tastes like soap and skin and musk and Phil wants to spend hours working his tongue into the tight ring of muscle but he knows he'll never last. He makes do with a few more leisurely licks, just enough to make Clint buck and mutter and fist his hands into the sheets.

Clint's body has become something foreign and familiar at the same time. His dick is so hard it hurts, the head of it rubbing against the cotton sheets in sharp little thrusts with each stroke of Phil's tongue – FUCK, his tongue, against Clint's hole. He's been fucked before, he's been fingered, but he's never had someone kiss him, lick him, damn near take him apart with a few strokes of his tongue right there. He can't believe Mr. All American is rimming him.

Phil wraps his hands around Clint's thighs and muscles him up on his knees, shoulders still pressed into the mattress. His ass is on display now, just how Phil wants it and there's a dark thought of keeping the kid here just like this so he could have him anytime he wanted him. Phil shakes his head to chase it away and leans his face in for a few more licks along the brat's exposed balls and hole. No matter what happens come Monday, he wants the kid to remember what it felt like to have himself open and exposed for Phil's mouth. It's clear nobody's ever taken the time to show Clint how good it can be, and Phil wants to change that.

That dark part of him maybe wants Clint to think nobody else can measure up. Phil forces that thought away and pulls back to reach for the lube and a condom on his nightstand. He coats his fingers carefully until they're dripping with lube, trying to ignore the way his fingers shake. He turns back to where Clint's waiting on his shoulders and knees, his ass upturned and hole still glistening from Phil's tongue. Phil has to reach down and clamp a hand tight around the base of his cock to keep from coming right then.

Clint's face is turned toward him where his cheek presses against the mattress, his eyes closed and mouth open. He's making those little noises again, soft sounds of want and need that make Phil want to lock him away somewhere. Phil knee walks forward on the bed until he's pressed against Clint's hip, one hand reaching out to stroke down the length of his spine. His voice sounds harsh and rusty when he speaks, desire making him struggle to form words. “I'm gonna stretch you open now, get you ready for my dick.”

Clint lets out a quiet, “Please.” If Phil makes him wait much longer he knows it will dissolve into full out begging, his nerves are worn thin like they could snap at any moment if he doesn't get Phil inside him. He lets out a half-bitten sob of relief when he finally feels the press of one of Phil's blunt fingers against his tender hole. Phil is just as careful as Clint expected, but it still stings and burns when he works his slicked up finger all the way in. His erection flags a bit at the breach, more from memories best-forgotten than the here and now.

For all his talk, Clint's only been fucked a couple of times and he'd never had much say in the matter. He's learned to be quick to offer a hand job or a blow job instead. He may not be a virgin but he's damn close and his little hole is still tight. He wants this though, wants to have College Boy work him open with those elegant fingers. He thinks maybe he's wanted it from the first time he saw Phil on the job site, pristine and clean with those miss-nothing blue eyes when everybody else was covered with dirt and sweat and just trying to get through the day.

“So tight,” Phil whispers because Christ, his self-control is stretched to the limit. Clint's ass is all tight heat around his finger. He makes himself go slow, inch by inch, because the last thing he wants to do is make it hurt. He's in past the knuckle, pad of his finger brushing over the little knot of nerves that makes Clint let out a keening sound before the brat loosens up at all. “That's it,” Phil says and strokes his other hand down Clint's back again. “Open up for me.” He sticks to one finger for a few more thrusts and then draws out just enough to ease two fingers back in.

Clint presses back into the burn this time and bears down so that Phil's fingers slide inside him. He wants to be filled, he wants the empty part inside of him to be filled up by whatever Phil will give him. That dark heat that rolled through his belly earlier has made its way back and his dick is pulled up tight and hard against his belly. Phil's fingers are stretching him, pressing against the most intimate part of him and scissoring him open and brushing across something that makes fire race through Clint's veins.

“Need you to take one more for me.” Phil whispers, his voice is an anchor that holds Clint steady.

“You're doing so good,” Phil praises, just barely holding back the endearment on the tip of his tongue. God, he didn't know what he expected out of Clint but it wasn't this sweet thing he has all spread out at his mercy. “One more to make sure I don't hurt you.” He carefully eases a third finger in, making sure he moves slowly enough for the stretch to be easy. The brat is tight and Phil's not small and he wants to make sure that it's good for him. He waits until Clint's rocking back onto his fingers, that gorgeous ass taking him in, before he starts to pull away.

Clint does beg then, a broken sound that's half “please” and half “more” and he can feel tears threaten beneath his closed eyelids because he's walking a knife edge of frustration and need. The bed shifts behind him and then he feels the hot press of something way bigger than Phil's fingers against his hole. Finally.

Finally.

Phil's presses the head of his cock against Clint's hole, even licked open and stretched on his fingers, it still looks pink and pretty and too tight. Phil has to force himself to stop long enough to fumble around for the condom. The primal part of Phil wants to see his come dripping out of that pretty hole, but the kid's too far gone for that particular talk right now so the condom will have to do. He slicks it over his dick with another smear of lube and then settles his hands over Clint's narrow hips, one hand covering the black ink of Clint's tattoo. “Show me how well you can take my dick, brat,” he says.

Clint forces himself open and back, the need to please this man, to show him he can be good, as intense as the need to be filled. When Phil presses forward, the fat head of his cock breaches Clint in one thrust and Clint rocks back to meet him. This is what he's been waiting for, the welcome burn of Phil's hot length all the way inside him. It's a feeling of being claimed, of being filled to capacity, of being remade from the inside out.

Phil's breath comes in stutters and stops, he's bottomed out inside the tight grip of Clint's ass. He has to make himself stay still, his hands clamped down too tight on Clint's hips, so he doesn't come. He can feel Clint's body clenching around him, his hole tightening down around Phil's cock, his whole body quivering. He likes having the kid under him, likes it too much. He take a deep breath, licks his lips and starts to move.

Phil goes slow at first, long strokes angled to drag his cock teasingly across Clint's prostate. He's rewarded by the way Clint bucks beneath him, how his tight ass goes even tighter around the length of Phil's dick. It makes Phil laugh, low and dirty, and rake his dull fingernails along the outline of Clint's tattoo until the kid moans. Phil's been waiting for that, waiting to hear the sounds he can draw out of Clint while he's buried inside him. 

“You like that? Let me hear how much. And look at me when you say it.” Phil's hand on Clint's tattoo slides around until it's wrapped around Clint's dick, the callused palm pressing hard into sensitive skin.

 

Clint's cheek is still pressed into the pillow. He forces his eyes open, raises his head just enough to look over his shoulder. His cheeks are flushed and Phil can't tell if it's from arousal or embarrassment or both when he mumbles, “I like it. I like your dick.”

Phil smiles at him, and strokes the brat's dick until Clint's biting his lip and moaning. And fuck, Clint will say whatever he wants, will do whatever he wants so long as Phil never stops making him feel like this. There's a warm haze settling over him, it's not just arousal but something else, something drugging and potent that makes Clint's body feel like it's floating in the middle of some vast dark ocean. Phil's hand is moving over his dick and Phil's dick is sliding into him and Phil's watching him like he knows every secret Clint ever had. The feeling is scary and addictive at the same time.

The way the kid looks at him, responds to him, makes Phil feel power drunk.. He rubs his thumb over the head of Clint's dick, dripping with pre-come, and slides his hand down the length of him. He runs his other hand up Clint's back, knots it in the hair at the base of Clint's neck. “Up on your hands, brat. You're gonna take it hard for me,” he says.

“Fuck,” Clint groans and levers himself up off his shoulders and onto his hands. He's so close to the edge that he's unsteady, but Phil's hand is still wrapped around his cock and his dick is still buried in his ass and there's nothing that Clint wouldn't do at Phil's command right now. He's barely repositioned before Phil starts pounding into him, his thrusts hard and fast. With each deep drive forward, Clint feels a new spark of heat shoot through him, his balls tight against his body. His dick is dribbling with pre-come and he's so fucking close –

Phil fucks into him over and over, drawing back until the head of his dick nearly catches on the sensitive rim of Clint's asshole before pushing back in. There's a part of Phil that wants Clint to think of him every time he gets fucked, to remember Phil's dick pushing into him, fucking him open, stretching him out. He wants his cock to be the one that Clint thinks of when he's empty and aching to be filled up.

Damn, but the brat is making him crazy.

“Come,” Phil says. He twists his palm around Clint's dick and snaps his hips forward and yeah, he can feel the hot splash of Clint's come over his fingers. The sound the kid makes when he comes is soft and sweet and makes Phil want to bare his teeth. Clint's hole tightens down and Phil drives forward two more thrusts before he's coming too, and fuck he doesn't think he's come this hard in his life.

Maybe it's the knot on his head that's making him feel dizzy and breathless with Clint underneath him but he doesn't think so.

Phil lets himself rest there against Clint's back for a long moment and then slowly eases away. There's a hitch in Clint's breath when Phil pulls out and Phil wonders if it's regret or pain or something else. He reaches for some tissue on his nightstand and uses them to wipe down his hands. The bed shifts behind him and Clint lets out a little sound as he rearranges himself and then goes still and silent.

It's like there's a weight pressing on Phil's chest now that the heat of the moment has passed. Was he too rough? Did he take advantage? Is he just another in a long line of people who've taken advantage of the kid? 

Phil throws the tissues and the condom in the wastebasket and takes a deep breath before turning back to Clint. He's almost afraid of what he'll find. Reproach? Fear? Indifference? The familiar smart ass brat?

Relief flows through him when he realizes that Clint has fallen asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just trying to teach Barton here to respect his betters,” Garrett says and shoots a grin over his shoulder at Phil. “He reminds me of that Barnes kid from school, all talk and bad attitude.”
> 
>  
> 
> There's a tight feeling in Clint's chest, he forgot that Garrett and Phil went to college together. They're probably buddies. Hell, they've probably been having a big laugh about how the circus kid puts out. Clint's heart is beating fast like he's been running even though he's standing still.

 

 

  


Clint lets out an unhappy groan as a drop of water trickles down over his cheek. Damn it, the fucking piece of shit tent must be leaking again. He's patched the holes with duct tape but every time it rains more than a sprinkle the dollar store special seems to develop a new tear. At least the sleeping bag is dry and warm and...furry? He comes awake with a start and gets a face full of dog for the effort.

  


“What the – gross!” Clint tries without success to push the drooling mutt out of his face. Lucky just tilts his head and looks at him with one soulful brown eye before he nuzzles close and gives him a lick that manages to catch Clint in the ear and part of his neck.

  


Phil leans up on his elbow on the other side of the bed and grins, “He's very affectionate in the morning.”

  


Clint wedges a protective arm between his body and Lucky's head and turns to say something back but loses his train of thought. Phil's hair is half smashed down against his head and half standing on end and his face is open and smiling In the sunlight streaming through the half-open blinds he looks about fifteen except for the stubble darkening his cheeks. The hardass junior supervisor from the construction site seems an eternity away. Only the eyes are the same.

  


Clint flushes as those knowing blue eyes move over him now, remembering the way he'd let down his guard the night before. He's never woken up with someone like this before. Never had someone stick around or want him to stick around.

  


He shifts in the bed, suddenly very aware of his nakedness underneath the covers and the faint tenderness in his ass. Sex, fucking, whatever you call it – it's never been like that for him before. It was so much more than getting off. It was like there was some sort of weird tipping point that Clint tumbled right over the edge of last night. Followed Phil right over the edge. Thinking about it makes his dick start to swell.

  


He should totally say something, he thinks. Play it off cool so Ivy League doesn't know how much what happened between them affected Clint. “So I guess I should -” he starts.

  


“You're staying,” Phil says and he reaches over Clint to give Lucky a scratch behind the ears.

  


Yeah, there's the hardass from work.

  


Fuck this, Clint thinks. Fuck College Boy telling him what to do! Just because they got off together doesn't give him the right to order Clint around. He opens up his mouth to protest but Phil starts talking again.

  


“I mean, I've got plenty of room here and Lucky likes you. I could use some help keeping the yard up and keeping things cleaned up anyway.” This time Phil is the one blushing and Clint is fascinated to watch the way it spreads. Goddamn, it goes all the way from the tips of his ears down to the middle of his chest. “Not just because of...”

  


“The fucking?” Clint says just to see if he can get the blush to spread further. “How I took it hard for you?” It cracks him up that the same guy that was sticking his tongue up Clint's ass the night before and saying such filthy things without batting an eye is now redfaced and embarrassed.

  


Phil lets out a huff and rolls over until he's got Clint halfway trapped underneath him, chest to chest. “Yeah, brat. The fucking. I'm saying you should stay and not just for the fucking or the sucking or all the other things I want to do to you or with you.” His arms are on either side of Clint's, bracing himself up so that there's just enough of his body weight on Clint to be a steady pressure. Clint likes the feeling, likes Phil on top of him, face to face. “You should stay just because I've got room and you need a place to stay. You can save your money until you have enough to get your own place and not sleep in a goddamn tent. No fucking required.”

  


_To you or with you_ , Clint thinks. Yeah. A shiver runs through him.

  


“So not a requirement, got it.” He licks his lips and shifts his hips over until his hard dick presses against Phil's thigh. “But totally an option, right College Boy?”

  


“Totally,” Phil agrees and gives him an absolutely filthy kiss.

  


*

  


They actually don't exercise the fucking option because Phil has regained a tiny bit of self-control and despite Clint's protests that he's just fine Phil knows he's got to be sore. There's some leisurely kissing that should be disgusting when you factor in morning breath, but neither of them seem to mind and when Phil reaches down and wraps his hand around Clint's dick it only takes a few strokes before Clint comes across his palm.

  


Phil grins when Clint stammers out an apology for coming so fast and leans in close, “I like that you come so easy for me, brat.” He gives Clint's spent cock one more squeeze that leaves him redfaced and gasping and then rolls out of bed. He barely makes it into the shower before he comes himself, one quick stroke and he's gone. He congratulates himself on his fortitude and takes a long shower, no need for the kid to know that he's got Phil just as close to the edge. Phil's trying to keep himself in line but whatever the thing – the nameless something that went beyond a good fuck – that happened the night before was, it shook him to the core.

  


When Phil comes out of the bathroom, Clint's scraped together a pretty damn good breakfast from the bits and pieces of groceries in Phil's kitchen. There's hot coffee and eggs scrambled with some of the fresh vegetables Phil's mom foisted on him the last time he made the 90 mile drive home. Clint's found some of the homemade sourdough bread Mrs. Delmonico liked to leave for Phil and topped it with cheese and toasted it in the oven.

  


Clint's in his boxers and a ragged Led Zeppelin tshirt and manages to look defensive and apologetic at the same time. “I made breakfast.” Clint passes him a cup of coffee and carefully doesn't meet his eyes. “We never ate last night and I was hungry.”

  


“Looks good,” Phil says. “I'm starving.”

  


He knows he said the right thing because Clint looks up at him and grins and then heaps a plate full of food for each of them.

  


They turn on the tv and watch Three Stooges reruns while eating breakfast. There's silence between them, but it's comfortable and Phil breaks it only when he has to. He's nursing his second cup of coffee and Clint's making noises about getting a shower and Phil finally bites the bullet. “So, I think we should go get the rest of your stuff from the truck stop.”

  


Clint stiffens and looks down at his hands and doesn't say anything for a long moment.

  


Phil is just about to press the matter when Clint shrugs and says, “Nah. My locker's paid up until the end of the month. I can grab some stuff out of there on Monday but no hurry.” He gives Phil that familiar cocky smile, the one that doesn't quite reach his eyes and then scoots his chair back. “I'm gonna grab a shower.”

  


Phil carefully doesn't bring the locker or the truck stop up again for the rest of the weekend.

  


Phil knows that despite his assurances, the brat thinks that he's going to toss him aside after a few fucks.

  


Phil's not sure how he's going to correct the brat's assumption but he's pretty sure it's going to mean a wicked case of blue balls for them both.

 

  


*  
  


By Monday morning Clint is about to go out of his mind.

  


Fuck, but Ivy League is driving him ten kinds of crazy. After giving him a taste of that something, that dark thrill that took Clint completely out of his head, Phil has drawn back into his cool polite shell. They've spent most of the weekend at close quarters, but other than a quick handjob on Saturday morning Phil has barely touched him. College Boy had some kind of ROTC thing Saturday afternoon and had stayed gone until late into the night. Clint spent the day piled up on the couch with Lucky and then crashed in Phil's bed fully expecting to wake up with some company. Only when he got up on Sunday morning, Phil had been snoring away on the couch.

  


Phil'd been stripped down to nothing but a pair of boxers and the ratty old throw from the back of the couch had been pushed down to mid-thigh. Damn, but College Boy looked good. With him asleep, Clint had been able to look his fill, letting his eyes roam over the muscled chest with the mass of curly brown hair that he found so appealing. The hair narrowed down to a line that pointed like an arrow to where it disappeared behind the waistband of his boxers. Only Clint knew just what Phil was packing under those boxers, knew it intimately, still had a pleasant ache in his ass from being split open by it.

  


God, he wanted to feel that dick in him again. He wanted that falling over the edge feeling when Phil pushed inside him, wanted to know the weight of his dick on his tongue.

 

Clint had debated about two seconds before dropping down on his knees beside the couch and reaching a hand out to run along the flat plane of Phil's stomach. He'd been easing the waistband of Phil's boxers down when Phil's hand had closed over his, putting a halt to his progress. He'd let out a frustrated sound and looked up to see College Boy watching him with an amused smile, “Not now, brat.” Phil lifted his hand away and gave it a little shake before letting it drop. “I've got to give Mrs. Delmonico a ride to church. Get dressed, you're coming too.”

  


Clint had balked until Phil explained they didn't actually have to go to church, only make sure his neighbor got there and pick her up afterwards. Over his protests, he'd found himself wedged on the bench seat of Phil's truck between Phil and his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Delmonico.

  


Mrs. Delmonico was old in the way that meant she could be anywhere from sixty to eighty, with pink cheeks and a puffball of white hair. She had a fading Italian accent and had taken one look at Clint before declaring him much too thin. She'd laughed and let out a snort when Phil introduced him as his buddy from work that was gonna be staying with him a while and leaned in to whisper something that made Phil blush. After they'd dropped her off at church and headed out to the grocery store with her list in hand, Phil had admitted that she's said the walls were thin.

  


The thought that the little old lady had heard the noises coming from Phil's bedroom on Friday night made Clint blush.

  


By the time they'd finished buying groceries for Mrs. Delmonico and picking up a few things for themselves (Clint had paid for half over Phil's protests) it had been time to pick her up from church and make the trip home. After everything was unloaded they'd eaten sandwiches for lunch and then Phil had settled into a corner of the couch with a book because even though he wasn't taking a class this summer he had required reading for his fall classes to get through.

  


Clint had puttered around the duplex trying not to make too much noise before finally giving up and going outside to throw the ball around the backyard for Lucky. Having someplace to hang out without worrying that he was drawing too much attention to himself was a new feeling after too long without a home and he didn't quite know what to do with himself. After he tired Lucky out, he'd dug through the battered out-building until he found a pair of hedge clippers and trimmed up some of the ragged looking bushes that ran along the fence row.

  


Mrs. Delmonico had yelled out the back door that they were both to come for dinner and a couple of hours later Clint and Phil had been pleasantly stuffed with homemade lasagna with a heaping serving of leftovers in the fridge to split between them. They'd piled up on the couch and watched an old James Bond movie on tv until nearly ten and then taken turns in the bathroom getting ready for bed.

  


Phil had gone first and he'd looked so good when he came out of the bathroom in nothing but a pair of faded boxer briefs that Clint had nearly gone back to his knees. Phil had just nodded his head toward the bathroom and said, “Your turn.”

  


Clint had taken extra care with his shower, using his fingers to stretch himself open a little bit and make sure he was as clean as possible. He was hard as a rock by the time he got out, both from touching himself and from using the soap that smelled just like Phil.

  


Only it was all for nothing because when he came out of the bedroom Ivy League was fast asleep.

  


The covers on the other side of the bed were drawn back in clear invitation, so it wasn't like Phil had meant for him to sleep on the couch. But, goddamn it, Clint was starting to wish that the whole fucking thing _was_ a requirement. After laying awake for half an hour debating whether he should wake College Boy up or just jerk it, he'd fallen asleep half hard and totally frustrated.

  


**

  


Phil is pretty sure that he's going to do permanent damage to himself if he doesn't get off soon. Clint's been giving him looks somewhere between reproachful puppy dog and sex-starved rent-boy all weekend and Phil's dick has been hard and aching pretty much nonstop. He's been jerking it every time he takes a shower but there's only so many times he can shower without being obvious about just what he's doing in the bathroom.

  


He wants to take what the brat keeps offering up but at the same time he doesn't want to spook the kid into bolting. Phil can't convince himself that what happened between them that first night was a mistake but he also can't shake the feeling that Clint's got one foot out the door. Clint has that look about him like he can't quite believe Phil's offer of someplace to stay is really without strings and Phil thinks the only way to get it through the brat's thick skull is to show him that fucking's off the table.

  


Even if all he can think about is bending Clint over the table, and the couch, and the arm chair and Jesus he needs to get laid.

  


Clint's taken to walking around the house shirtless as much as possible, wearing nothing but a pair of Phil's old cargo shorts that hang down too loose on his hips. Phil's fascinated by the arrow tattoo that winds its way around the brat's hip and the dull gleam of the barbell piercing in his belly button. More than once he catches himself mid-motion, his fingers reaching out of their own accord toward the temptation so clearly meant just for him.

  


By Wednesday, Phil's convinced he should get a medal for his self-restraint. Or maybe he's going to end up in a strait jacket from going absolutely fucking nuts. That's a whole different kind of restraint, right?

  


They've made it halfway through the work week without him so much as laying a hand on the kid. It's helped that the rain they got over the weekend left the job site such a mess that the crew's been busting ass extra hard and they've both been too exhausted to do more than scarf down dinner, shower and crawl into bed once they make it home.

  


They ride together to and from work but once they're on the job site Clint's reverts to his old smart ass self. It's like he's trying extra hard to push Phil's buttons in an attempt to get a rise out of him and it sets Phil's teeth on edge.

 

It's hot as fuck and there's mud everywhere after another late night rainstorm which means everything is wet and slick and even more dangerous than usual. The second time he catches Clint out of his safety harness in as many days Phil completely loses it. “Barton, get your ass down here.”

  


To his credit Clint seems to realize just how pissed Phil is because he scrambles off the roof and crosses to where Phil's waiting in record time instead of doing his usual slow amble, “Yeah, Boss?”

  


Phil scowls at him, “Since you can't keep your harness on, you're off roof duty the rest of the day.” He glances down at his watch and then at the horizon where another set of storm clouds are rolling in fast. “Go down to the supply shed and do an inventory of the roofing tiles.” It's the construction crew equivalent of busy work and pretty much the most hated job on site.

  


The brat looks like he wants to protest but thinks better of it and turns without a word to stomp off toward the supply shed.

  


**

  


“This is total bullshit.” Clint mutters to himself. The supply shed is dimly lit by a bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling and even with a flashlight its a strain to count the boxes of roofing tiles. He tries to work up a little righteous indignation but he pretty much got what he was asking for - some attention from College Boy. God knows he hasn't been able to get any at home.

  


Wait, not home. Ivy League's place. Clint's just crashing there a while.

  


The first drops of rain start to hit the metal roof of the supply shed and Clint lets out another muttered curse. Fucking rain makes everything miserable. The rest of the crew has probably already been let go for the day but Clint will no doubt be expected to finish his job since Phil will stick around an extra hour to lock everything up anyway.

  


He jumps when the door to the shed bangs open.

  


Yeah, this day just gets better and better.

  


Garrett's in the doorway smiling at Clint with too many teeth showing. “Hey Clint, come on and I'll give you a ride.” The way he says his name makes Clint feel dirty. Garrett had been the one guy who'd taken him up on the handjob offer in exchange for a ride. Clint had wisely not given him a choice between handjob or blowjob. As it was, Garrett had come in Clint's hand, called him a faggot and then unceremoniously opened his truck door and shoved him out into the truck stop parking lot before taking off.

  


Since then Garrett has alternated between treating Clint like a piece of trash or offering him another ride, depending on the dude's mood. Clint's done his best just to avoid the guy. Something about the way he looks at Clint makes him nervous, like Clint's chum and Garrett's the shark.

  


“Yeah, no thanks. I've got it covered.” Clint says and turns back to the roofing tiles.

  


“I bet you do.” Garrett says with a nasty laugh and crowds in close until Clint's pressed between the stacks of tiles and his body. “Been riding with Coulson this week, haven't you?”

  


Clint grits his teeth and tries not to rise to the bait. “Whatever, Garrett. I don't need a ride. I'll never need a ride from you.” He flinches when Garrett wraps a hand around his elbow, lets the disgust on his face show. Even though Clint's been eating better and packing on some muscle with this job, Garrett has at least thirty pounds and a couple of inches on him so Clint's pretty sure how this is going to end.

  


Garrett leans in close, his handsome face twisted into something ugly. “You need to learn some manners. I've got a good mind to--”

  


“What the hell is going on here?” Phil's voice is steady and maybe the best thing Clint's ever heard.

  


“Just trying to teach Barton here to respect his betters,” Garrett says and shoots a grin over his shoulder at Phil. “He reminds me of that Barnes kid from school, all talk and bad attitude.”

  


There's a tight feeling in Clint's chest, he forgot that Garrett and Phil went to college together. They're probably buddies. Hell, they've probably been having a big laugh about how the circus kid puts out. Clint's heart is beating fast like he's been running even though he's standing still.

  


“Get your hands off him, and go home, Garrett.” Phil says.

  


“Nah,” Garrett says. “I think the little twink likes it when I put my hands on him. Guy like him would probably like it from both of us.” He tightens his hand down on Clint's elbow hard and lets out a little satisfied smile when Clint winces in pain.

  


Clint's staring at Garrett, mesmerized by the way his eyes have gone flat and dead looking. Was this the plan from the beginning, he wonders? The two of them. God, he's such a fucking idiot. He reaches behind him with the arm that Garrett's not holding, maybe he can find something to use as a weapon. He doesn't dare look at Phil, can't stand to see the same mocking look there that he sees in Garrett's eyes.

  


“I asked nice,” he hears Phil says and then a fist plows into Garrett's smug face and the hand gripping Clint's elbow lets go.

  


He slumps back against the boxes of tiles and tries to make sense of what's going on. It takes him a minute to realize that Phil's got Garrett on the floor and is straddling him, his fists delivering blow after blow. Garrett's holding his own at first, halfway blocking the hits, but Phil just keeps pounding away.

  


“Stop,” Clint croaks and then manages to repeat it louder. “Stop! Phil, you've gotta stop.” He steps forward and lays both hands on Phil's shoulders.

  


Garrett's face is a bloody mess and one eye is swollen completely shut. Phil's hands are battered and Jesus Christ, Clint feels like he's going to pass out. Phil looks up at him with eyes that are full of some emotion that Clint doesn't even recognize.

  


After a long moment Phil gives his head a little shake and seems to come back to himself. He looks down at Garrett with disgust and then pushes himself up and gets to his feet. He nudges Garrett with his work boot until the other man lets out a groan and rolls over. “Get your shit and get off my job site, Garrett. Don't come back.”

  


Clint stares at him trying to figure out what exactly happened in the last fifteen minutes because his head is still spinning. Phil jerks his head toward the door. “Wait for me at the truck.” He rubs a hand across the back of his neck before he meets Clint's eyes. “I want to make sure this piece of shit gets out of here and I need to call Jessup.”

  


Clint nods but doesn't say anything because he's not sure what there is to say.

  


**

  


Half an hour has passed by the time Phil makes it to his truck. Garrett's gone and Jessup's been called and fuck it all but Phil's hands are still shaking from a combination of rage and adrenaline. Clint's behind the wheel and for once Phil doesn't protest, just slides into the passenger seat without a word. They make the drive home in silence that's tense but Phil can't find the energy to break it.

  


He wanted to kill Garrett. Still kind of wants to kill Garrett. Smug asshole with his hands on the kid talking about him like he was a piece of meat. Something dark and dangerous had risen up in Phil, something that demanded a blood price.

  


He doesn't even want to consider the look of betrayal he'd seen on Clint's face, the brief moment when the brat thought Garrett and Phil were the same. Just thinking of it makes Phil wants to puke.

  


He flexes his hands,winces a little at the soreness that's already starting to set in from where he'd pounded his fists into Garrett's face.

  


Clint pulls into the driveway of the duplex and cuts the ignition. He turns toward Phil like he's going to say something but Phil's already opening the door and heading toward the house. Even Lucky seems to realize that something's off because the dog's greeting is relatively low key. Phil gives him a perfunctory scratch and then heads to the fridge and grabs a beer.

  


He's downed half of it when Clint comes into the kitchen. The shaking in his hands has almost stopped and Phil is starting to feel almost normal but one look at the brat and that dark possessive rush of “mine” flows over him again. What the fuck is the kid doing to him?

  


Clint looks as fucked up as Phil feels, his eyes are huge in his face and he's been chewing on his bottom lip until it's swollen and pink. Phil stares at him and searches for something to say but words won't come.

 

His breath catches when Clint pushes him back against the counter and goes to his knees. He manages to set the beer on the counter without spilling it, but just barely.

  


Clint reaches for him with hands that tremble when they work open his blue jeans and tug them down past Phil's hips. He leans forward and mouths Phil's dick through his briefs, his lips and tongue licking and sucking and kissing until Phil's straining against the thin cotton.

  


Phil can't take his eyes off of the kid. Kneeling on the floor in front of Phil, Clint's got his hands on Phil's thighs, his fingers digging into the muscles there as he slowly tugs Phil's underwear down with his teeth. He's gazing up the length of Phil's body right into Phil's eyes, somehow managing to look innocent and wicked at the same time. After he works Phil's underwear down he presses sweet kisses to every bit of Phil's flesh, not just his dick but the soft skin of his belly and the jut of his hip bone and the join where his thigh and groin meet.

  


When Clint finally opens his mouth over the end of Phil's cock, it's all Phil can do not to thrust all the way into the kid's throat. He wants to leave his mark on every inch of Clint, to fuck him sweet and fuck him raw and make sure that everybody knows that Clint is his.

  


He feels like Clint is killing him by inches, the most exquisite death possible. Clint slides his mouth down over the length of Phil's cock slow as molasses, his tongue sliding over the head and along the ridge where the head meets the shaft. He takes him in inch by slow inch, back slide to slow forward thrust until Phil is buried almost to the hilt. He's too big for Clint to take all the way without deepthroating and there's a part of Phil that's glad that Clint hasn't been around enough to figure that out yet. Phil slides a hand into Clint's hair and strokes his temple and lets himself get lost for a minute in the feeling of hot wet slick as Clint holds him in his mouth.

  


Clint starts moving his head back and forth slowly and gently, taking in as much as he can until he's almost gagging himself around the thick head and length of Phil's cock. One of Clint's hands slides up to softly stroke along the base of Phil's cock, trying to make up for that extra bit that he can't quite get into his mouth. It's a slow sweet mouth fuck and Phil's totally in love with the feeling of it. He wants to keep his cock buried in the brat's mouth forever.

  


Neither of them says a word. The only sounds are the rustling of cloth, the slick wet sound of Clint's mouth moving over Phil's flesh, and their mingled moans and gasps.

  


He forces himself to keep his eyes open, to watch the look of ecstasy on Clint's face as the kid seems to drift off some place where nothing matters but his mouth on Phil's dick. Phil lays his other hand on Clint's shoulder, right where it meets the neck, and gives him a firm squeeze. That's all it takes to make Clint give it up, that last little bit of tension floating away as he arches his back and opens wide just as Phil begins to thrust into his mouth faster. Phil loves seeing the change go over Clint's face, the way his expression seems to transform into something totally new and beautiful when he gives himself over to Phil. Phil's balls are going tight, orgasm starting to rush over him and he comes with a shout.

  


Clint takes it all, eyes open but hazy, mouth spilling over even as he swallows until a trail of Phil's come slides down his chin.

  


There's a wet spot on his jeans and Phil realizes that the brat came from sucking Phil off.

  


He's so gorgeous, Phil thinks. And I'm so fucked.

  


  


 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil can hear the anger and hurt in Clint’s voice and it makes him want to drag the brat into the shower and fuck him into the tiles just to let him know how much it would bother him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay in getting the next couple of chapters posted. A crisis of confidence followed by excellent and calming advice from Lillyjk and a huge re-write later...chapters eight and nine are finally ready. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Lillyjk, you are the most amazing writing partner - thank you.

Phil’s legs are still shaking. It’s probably the most intense blowjob he’s ever had. The memory of shifting expressions on Clint’s face as he sucked him off then let Phil fuck his mouth just add to the high that’s enveloping him and he shudders again, the aftershocks not quite over. His eyes keep flitting between Clint’s glazed look, the come on his chin and the wet patch on his jeans and he feels his spent dick twitch again. This kid is taking him apart piece by piece and he’s hooked.

Clint remains on his knees and he rests his forehead against Phil’s thigh. “Was I…was I any good?” he asks quietly, an unfamiliar feeling of doubt hitting him. He’s never looked for approval before. Once the guy came, he wiped his mouth and walked away. Fuck the guy if he enjoyed it or not. But he needs to know from Phil and he hates himself for it.

“Good? You were fucking amazing!” Phil runs his fingers through Clint’s hair giving it a gentle tug. “Come here.”

Relief floods over the brat as he stands with his head bowed. Phil tucks the fingertips of one hand under Clint’s chin and tilts his head up then slides his hand round to the nape of his neck giving it a light squeeze, grounding him. He places his forehead against Clint’s before kissing down his face to the come on his chin. Using the tip of his tongue he licks it away trailing up to Clint’s mouth gently pushing inside, running his tongue against the brat’s, kissing him softly tasting himself on his lips, his teeth, his tongue. It’s surreal but it’s also fucking hot.

Clint groans into Phil’s mouth hands gripping tight onto Phil’s hips. No-one’s ever done that before, stood up for him, protected him; not even Barney.

“Who’s Barney?” Phil asks carefully.

Clint pulls away looking confused and scared – he’s no idea he’s muttered the name out loud.

The blissful haze lifts and reality kicks in. Clint can almost feel the blood draining from his face. He’s mentioned Barney! Fuck! Clint doesn’t want Phil to know about his life in care or with the circus, he doesn’t want the looks of sympathy and he sure as shit doesn’t want to see the disgust in his expression.  

The wet patch on his jeans suddenly makes him feel sick and he needs to get away from Phil right now. It should have been a great blowjob followed by mind numbing sex but as usual he’s fucked things up.

He pushes away from Phil and tries to smirk but it appears as more of a grimace. “See, College Boy? I’m so good I make myself come! I need to clean up.” His voice is shaking as he tries to joke which makes him feel even more pathetic. He turns and almost runs to the bathroom.

Phil has no idea what’s just happened. He calls out after Clint and tries to follow but his underwear and jeans are still halfway down his thighs. Cursing he pulls them up, tucking himself away and hurries after the kid. He talks to him softly through the bathroom door trying to coax Clint into telling him what’s wrong but he doesn’t answer. He tries one last time. "Clint, please! I just want to know you’re okay.” But there’s still no response. Frustrated he punches the door frame wincing as it opens a cut on his swollen knuckles and leaves a smear of blood on the paintwork.

Breathing heavily he turns away from the bathroom and heads back to the kitchen; his previously relaxed body has gone tense and he’s buzzing but it’s not from the after affects of Clint’s blowjob like it should be. He lifts the beer from the counter and takes another deep swallow. It goes down the wrong way and makes him choke spraying over the surface and in annoyance he throws it against the wall where it explodes everywhere and drips down onto the counter. He needs to calm the fuck down before he says or does anything even more stupid and the only way he can think to do that is by his old fall back...running. It’s probably not the best of ideas considering, but he has to do something.

Phil whistles to Lucky who slinks through from the bedroom, ears laid flat against his head, tail between his legs. Fucking brilliant! He’s scared the dog too. He drops to his knees and gently calls to him. Slowly Lucky creeps closer the tip of his tail flicking in a feeble attempt at a wag and Phil’s heart sinks. He hates when the dog reverts to this state. It’s not often that Phil makes loud noises or shouts (unless he’s jacking off and to be fair he doesn’t generally do that in front of the dog) but Lucky always reacts the same way; as if he’s going to be beaten or kicked. And Phil hates that the dog was ever treated that way but right now he hates even more that this time he’s the cause.

He can feel a swell of rage building up inside him again triggered by Lucky’s submissive behaviour; Garrett has really fucked with his head and just thinking about the bastard sends adrenaline surging through him.

“It’s okay boy,” he says trying to keep his voice soft for the dog who’s rolled onto his back baring his belly, the tip of his tail wagging like a rattlesnake’s. “I’m going for a run. You coming?”

Carefully he stands up and, with Lucky so close he almost trips over him twice, goes to the bedroom to change from his work boots and jeans to his running shoes and sweat pants. The t-shirt is sweaty from work so it’ll do fine for the run. He opens his mouth to shout to Clint that he’ll be back soon but doesn’t trust his voice so he leaves without saying anything; they’ll talk when he gets back.

Clint hears the front door slam and jumps at the noise. His mind was deep in memories of Barney and him; listening to their parents fighting, the beatings, the foster homes, the circus, the...well, all the other shit he thought he’d left behind. Thanks to Garrett it’s come back in a rush and he feels like he’s in hell all over again. He lifts his head and looks at himself in the mirror and pushes away from the sink in disgust at the red, swollen eyes and streaks of tears on his face. Fucking pathetic little shit! He had a good thing going here and he’s fucked that up – pretty obvious by the fact Phil’s left slamming the door behind him. Fair enough. At least it should give him time to shower and put his things in his bag and leave before Phil gets back. Maybe the next place he moves on to he won’t be such an asshole and fall for the first person that treats him nice. Fuck!

 

***

 

Phil’s about twenty minutes into his run and for once it’s not having the effect it should have. Normally, after the initial burn in his muscles and lungs wears off, he relaxes into it and can run for miles but tonight he has no rhythm, the pain isn’t leaving and he’s still wired. Only Lucky running beside him with his tail wagging round in circles and his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth seems to be enjoying it. At least the rain has decided to stop for a while, not that would make any difference – he quite enjoys running in the rain. It makes him think of his dad; it’s one of the strongest memories he has of him having lost him when he was just nine.

“A rainstorm purifies, son,” he used to tell him when Phil as a young kid grumped about being caught in a downpour. “Everything bad is washed away.”

The words make him smile for a moment but his thoughts drift away again, returning to Clint...well to Barney actually, wondering who the fuck he was/is to the brat and why it brought about the sudden change in him. He could understand embarrassment; calling a guy by another guy’s name after a blowjob like that...not fucking cool let’s be honest...but there was something else. He seemed so scared. Phil was sure he’d murmured something about no-one protecting him before, not even Barney. It doesn’t make much sense until it suddenly does. He stops short, his own face a picture of dismay. The guy had either hurt Clint or, more likely, allowed him to be hurt and fucking Garrett had dredged it all up again. And he’s left the kid...alone. Some fucking protector!

Phil turns and races back to the apartment chased by Lucky who’s more that a little freaked out by the whole evening so far, thank you very much. Panting heavily Phil throws open the front door and enters trying to call out Clint’s name but he’s pretty badly winded and his ribs are painful so he can’t quite manage to do anything more than wheeze. Chest and head pounding he checks the bathroom; empty but not for long going by the tell tale signs of a fogged-up mirror and still dripping shower. Next he tries the bedroom where he notices Clint’s few possessions and clothes which were lying around are no longer there. He looks in the closet and sees his bag is missing too. He’s gone. Clint’s gone.

His heart heavy, Phil returns to the kitchen. The beer’s been cleaned up and the counter top tidied. His wallet and keys are still there but on impulse when he checks, the wallet’s not empty but it’s short of a few bills. He snorts out a sad laugh. Could have been worse he supposes but going by the ache in his chest that’s nothing to do with the exercise, not by much. He leans against the wall and wipes the sweat from his eyes. He tells himself it’s sweat because if he believes it’s tears he’ll break completely and he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to admit the kid was anything more than a project – another stray that he picked up and took care of for while.

It’s for the best anyway. He goes back to college soon and joins the Army a few months after that so nothing was ever going to really happen between them. Besides his life was orderly before Clint entered it and now it’s a mess. A certifiable fucked up mess...

He’s not sure how long he’s been standing there staring into space but a quiet whine brings him back and Phil looks down at Lucky the sight of which causes the corner of his mouth to turn up for a fleeting moment. The dog is sitting to attention waiting on his treat. It was The Ritual – go out, pee lots, maybe take a squat, get told how amazing you are (even when your human’s face says different when he picks up your shit), come back... get The Biscuit. It was The Ritual so where was The Biscuit?

Phil shakes his head to clear it of all Clint-related thoughts and pushes himself away from the wall wincing at the tenderness of his ribs. Garrett must have managed to get in a few well-aimed punches before the red mist took over. He hadn’t really noticed the physical pain until now probably because his mind and body have been occupied in so many ways since Clint and he left the site. Plus the adrenaline that’s been coursing through him has finally dissipated leaving him aware of the bruises and knotted muscles round his back and stomach.

Still, like the well trained human he is, Phil goes to Lucky’s tin and removes the lid taking one of the little bone-shaped biscuits out. He bends down carefully and ruffles the dog’s head then gives him treat which is gone in a single crunch and a lick of his lips. Satisfied The Ritual has been carried out, albeit slowly, Lucky trots off to the couch for a well-earned nap. He’s sure that his human will do better next time.

Phil huffs out a small laugh. If only his life was that simple. Peeling off his t-shirt and toeing off his running shoes, he heads for the bathroom to take the hottest shower he can stand. He strips out of the rest of his clothes and sets the water running then takes a piss while he waits for the water to heat. Unlike Lucky, it’s not something he can get away with in the street.

As he turns to get into the shower he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink and starts at the angry red marks on his jaw and across his ribs. He takes a closer look and sees they’re beginning to darken, undeniably showing signs of developing into colourful and probably painful bruises. He wonders about Clint’s arm, it looked like a pretty tight grip Garrett had of Clint when he’d walked in. Again he shakes his head. Remembering isn’t going to do him any good. Clint is gone; the marks will fade as will the hurt. It’s not that he really blames Clint for leaving; none of this was the kid’s fault. He holds himself responsible believing he could have protected Clint better, earlier maybe, from Garrett. It’s his nature.

Phil steps into the shower hissing as the water strikes his skin like hundreds of tiny hot needles. After a while he becomes used to the heat and pain - it’s almost therapeutic. He braces himself against the wall the palms of both hands pressed against the tile and allows his head to fall forward letting the spray cascade over his neck and shoulders. About ten minutes later his body seems to hurt less and the heat is finally beginning to massage the knots out of his muscles; it’s then the door is thrown open and crashes against the wall making him flinch, causing some of the muscles to scream in protest at the unexpected movement.  He grits his teeth against the sharp burst of pain.

“I thought you’d gone,” he says quietly just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the shower.

“Yeah...well I had but for your information, College Boy, I’m not fucking anyone else...not that it matters what you think. Not that you give a fuck anyway!”

Phil can hear the anger and hurt in Clint’s voice and it makes him want to drag the brat into the shower and fuck him into the tiles just to let him know how much it would bother him. He’d resigned himself to the fact he was never going to see Clint again and that he’s appeared in his bathroom totally out of the blue throws him. He’s not sure why Clint has come back but Phil’s pretty sure it’s not to tell him he hasn’t been fucking around or that he doesn’t care what Phil thinks. He sighs and carefully places his forehead against the tile between his hands.

“Barton, I...”

“You’ve got no fucking right.”

Phil lifts his hand to turn off the water but Clint seems to sense the movement, there’s so much steam from the hot water he can’t possibly see the action, but however he knows it he reacts badly.

“No! Leave the fucking water on. I don’t need you coming out here giving me all your shit.”

Phil straightens from his position against the wall and turns leaning his shoulders against the tiles but he complies and stays silent which Clint’s grateful for. It takes him a few seconds but finally he lets go and the words come tumbling out.

“Barney’s my brother, my older brother. When I said Barney’s name it was...it was because he never looked after me like you have, even when you’re being a dick you’re looking out for me. Everyone else, everyone who’s ever ‘taken care’ of me has been looking out for themselves; my fuck-up of a father, guys in the foster homes, guys in the circus; even my fucking brother. Even when he did do stuff for me, it was really for him. I just didn’t fucking realise it ‘til now. You look out for me. Me! And I don’t know what to do about that.”  It comes out in a rush and by the end of it Clint’s voice is shaking.

He knows he should just leave. He’s said what he came to and he knows he’ll get nothing else but he’s rooted to the spot. The silence, which was comforting at first, now grates on his nerves and he has to fix it. Two steps and before he knows it, he’s at the shower curtain pulling aside as he almost yells the words, “So Ivy League, is that fucking okay with you?”

His jaw drops open; nothing to do with the sight of Phil’s cock which generally makes Clint’s mouth open voluntarily, but everything do with the marks on his upper body. Clint’s seen and had plenty of beatings before and is more than qualified to recognise the early stages of bruising even when it’s disguised by skin flushed from the hot water of a shower. Tentatively he reaches out but doesn’t quite touch, his hand hovering in mid-air.

“Aww Phil, no! Fuck, I’m sorry.” He can feel tears well up in his eyes but he blinks them back down swallowing hard. It’s been a shit day and this is just about to take him over the edge but he’ll be damned if he’s going to cry over it again.

Seeing the expression on his face Phil immediately reaches out to the younger man gently placing his hand on the back of Clint’s neck, stroking the skin with his thumb as he pulls him gently towards his chest. It means Clint’s getting splashed by the water but he doesn’t care. The second Phil’s hand is on him all the anger, the hurt, the fear evaporates. They stand like that for a moment or two as Clint becomes more grounded and his breathing slowly evens out.

Quietly and calmly Phil talks to Clint careful to keep any note of sympathy out of his voice. “This is not your fault, Clint. Garrett was being an asshole and he got what he deserved. It’s been a long time in coming but I’d do it again, in a heartbeat, for what he was going to do to you.”

Clint’s t-shirt is getting soaked even though Phil has turned his body trying to shield him from the worst of the spray but that’s not what’s making him shiver. Phil seems to realise it and softly whispers against his hair, “C’mon, brat, join me.”

Clint may have had his own shower not less than an hour before but the thought of being in there with Phil maybe being held by him under the warm water, is comforting and it’s more than he thought he’d ever get again.

He pulls in a deep, shaky breath then nods. Reluctantly he pulls away, peeling off his wet t-shirt before untying and kicking off his boots and quickly stripping out the remainder of his clothes. He climbs into the shower with Phil and allows him to guide him to the spray so that the water, cooler now than when Phil was under it alone, runs over Clint’s body to warm him.

Clint’s back to his front, Phil drapes one arm around Clint’s shoulder and chest and nuzzles his neck; it’s a supportive gesture rather than a possessive one and Clint melts into the embrace, his hands wrapped around Phil’s forearm, head resting back against Phil’s shoulder. He sighs letting the water wash over him, over them both, rinsing away the tide of emotion that has been ebbing and flowing all day. He never thought he’d get the chance to feel the wiry hair of Phil’s chest brush against his skin again and he can feel his dick beginning to stir. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful or embarrassed when Phil says, “It’s okay. Let me take care of you.”

Phil hugs him tightly against his chest for a few moments before letting go and directing Clint into the position he was in before Clint barged into the bathroom; palms against the wall, legs spread, head dropped forwards. Phil reaches over to his shower gel and squeezes a generous amount into his palm. He works it into a thick lather and starting with Clint’s neck, massages it into his skin in slow, sensual circles. Now and again he presses the pads of his thumbs into a muscle group breaking down the knots he finds there. Phil’s hands are strong and sure and Clint can’t help the long, drawn-out moan that escapes from his lips. Fuck it feels so good!

Phil smirks at the filthy noise Clint makes and unsurprisingly feels his own dick harden at the sound. He continues to knead Clint’s shoulders and back watching the tension in the brat’s body start to slip away being replaced with noises and movements that leave Phil in no doubt Clint’s enjoying this. He’s reached those honest-to-god sexy-as-hell back dimples and for the briefest moment hesitates before working his magic fingers into the depressions before sliding the palms of his hands over Clint’s tight, firm ass. He keeps the touches light, squeezing and massaging the flesh gently but firm enough to make Clint squirm beneath his fingers.

“Jesus fuck, College Boy,” he groans. He’s desperately trying not to come but it’s a hard fought battle. Phil knows exactly what he’s doing; when to apply pressure and when to ease off, when to scrape his nails across Clint’s skin and when to work his fingertips into the muscles. Clint’s never felt this good and his whole body’s becoming a raw nerve ending waiting to explode.

Phil presses his chest into Clint’s back, his own stiff cock nudging the crease between Clint’s buttocks and whispers into his ear “You enjoying this, brat?”

His voice is low and gravely and dripping with sex and Clint whimpers at the sound of it. He drops his hand down to his dick but Phil catches it before it makes contact and places it back against the tiles. He rests his own on top interlacing his fingers with Clint’s. The grip is loose enough to let Clint pull away if he wants to but tight enough to make clear Phil’s intentions.

“No,” he growls and gently bites down on Clint’s shoulder, teeth grazing the muscle as his lips suck on the skin. Clint shudders and his eyes roll back in his head. The noise Clint makes in his throat goes straight Phil’s dick and it twitches in approval.

Keeping his body pressed against Clint’s, Phil glides his free hand across Clint’s stomach enjoying the muscles flutter beneath his touch. His palm is scraped by the bar at Clint’s bellybutton and he flicks it with his thumb making Clint start. Then at a painfully slow pace, he slides his hand down over Clint’s hip, rubbing his thumb across the arrow tattoo a few times, until he reaches Clint’s cock. He wraps his soapy fingers round it leisurely stroking his shaft. Clint’s hips buck at the sensation and he curses begging for Phil to fuck him and fuck him hard.

It’s enough to make Phil blush but doesn’t make him speed up, if anything it makes him pump his hand up and down Clint’s dick at an even more deliberate pace, sliding his palm over Clint’s dripping head dragging his work-calloused palm along his length from root to tip.  

Clint is struggling for breath right about now; it’s as though his brain’s forgotten that breathing is a necessity...all it can think about is Phil’s hand squeezing and relaxing, speeding up and slowing down until his balls tighten and he gives a tell tale grunt that he’s just about to come. That’s when Phil, the fucker, stops and grips the base of Clint’s cock cutting off the orgasm. Clint cries out in frustration and disbelief and he curses Phil all over again.

This time Phil doesn’t blush, he smirks and once he’s certain Clint is ready he lets go of his dick and reaches around to cup Clint’s balls squeezing and relaxing his grip exactly as he did with Clint’s cock. He gently pulls Clint’s sack earning a hiss and another filthy groan for his trouble. The soap’s fast disappearing but there’s enough left mixed with the pre-come that’s leaking from Clint’s slit, to allow Phil’s finger to glide across the perineum teasing the prostate as he pushes lightly up against it. Clint’s hips jerk and he cries out at the sensation. Aware that it may be too much for now, Phil stops and brings his hand back to Clint’s cock for a few strokes before turning the brat to face him.

Clint’s skin is flushed from his face to the centre of his chest and his jaw’s gone slack. Although his eyes are half shut, Phil can see that his pupils have dilated so completely there’s hardly any blue left. Clint grips tight onto Phil’s upper arms just to keep himself upright; his legs are shaking and his heart’s pounding in his chest. He’s no idea where Phil’s learned any of this but he’s eternally grateful to the person who taught him. He’s on the edge of a violent orgasm which is making him torn between never wanting Phil’s touch to end and shooting his load all over Phil’s stomach.

Phil leans into his ear and takes the lobe in his mouth teasing it with his tongue before letting go of it, nipping it with his teeth as it slides out.

“Still enjoying it, brat?” he growls. Clint has lost the power of speech even grunting is too much of an effort right now but that in itself tells Phil everything.

“Still with me?” he asks needing to know the kid’s okay with everything he’s doing. Clint lifts his gaze to Phil’s eyes and gives him a weak lopsided grin. He squeezes Phil’s arms briefly and nods.

“I’m good,” he slurs.

Phil is every bit as intoxicated as Clint and like the brat he wants to keep it going for as long as possible however his own cock has other ideas and is beginning to crave its own attention.

Phil takes his dick in his hand and shivers as pre-come weeps from his head running over his fingers. He lines himself up with Clint and wraps his hand round both of them. Clint gasps at the contact; from their cocks touching and the friction from Phil’s hand. He leans his forehead into Phil’s shoulder as he begins pumping their shafts in short, quick strokes.

Not surprisingly, Clint comes first. He’s been on the verge for what seems like hours and when he finally does let go, semen splashing Phil’s stomach and chest with hot, wet spurts, he yells with the power of it digging his fingers into Phil’s arms leaving finger marks in the skin – these ones Phil is actually kinda proud of when he sees them in the morning. His body shudders and he takes air into his lungs with short ragged pants. If it wasn’t for Phil holding him tight against him he would collapse, his body’s gone completely boneless from the massage and climaxing like a fucking superhero.

A few more strokes and Phil is coming too. As orgasms go, it’s unbelievably intense and seems to start from the soles of his feet. His balls tighten and he cries out, hips jerking as he pulses all over Clint. For a guy who had a massive orgasm less than two hours ago he can hardly believe he just shot come from his dick hard enough to take an eye out and it takes Phil more than a moment or two to get his breath back. Fuck!

Eventually, after lazily washing the come off them both, Phil sandwiches Clint between his body and the tiles to stretch over and turn the shower off. The steam that had built up when the hot water was on full blast has at last begun to dissipate and Phil can clearly see the totally fucked expression on Clint’s face. The kid looks at Phil with something between disbelief and adoration which fills his chest with radiant warmth that spreads throughout his body.

Phil leans in and slants his mouth over Clint’s before brushing the brat’s lips with his tongue. There is no resistance as he licks into Clint’s mouth and kisses him hard and possessively. On the contrary, Clint has found a second wind with Phil’s mouth-to-mouth technique reviving him in a slightly different, yet no less effective method to that found in first aid books. He releases a filthy groan against Phil’s lips sending another surge of heat through his belly. Hungrily he kisses Phil back with a bruising ferocity before sliding his tongue against Phil’s sucking on it like it’s his cock.

It’s at that moment that Clint’s stomach decides to release a terrifying growl. Amplified by the acoustics of the tiled bathroom it’s almost deafening. They freeze in position until Phil pulls back slowly to look at Clint. The expression on Phil’s face causes the kid to crack up in fit of the giggles. Phil shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Sadly his own stomach makes a noise to rival Clint’s who snorts out another burst of laughter.

“Hungry?” Phil manages to ask the question while still keeping his face straight. Someone had to be the adult.

“I could eat. Fuck! Wait! I got pizza.”

Phil narrows his eyes. “Pizza. As in frozen pizza or pizza pizza?”

Clint blushes which Phil would normally find endearing but a lot rests on Clint’s answer. The kid rubs the back of his head then runs his hand through his wet hair making it stick up at odd angles. Again Phil usually finds this pretty hot but under the circumstances he’s trying not to get turned on.

“Clint?” he asks pushing for an answer even though he’s pretty certain what it will be.

He dips his head and looks up at Phil with a pained expression. “Pizza pizza?”

Phil hurries out of the shower grabbing a towel and wrapping it tightly round his waist before heading through to the living area.

“I put it at the back of the kitchen surface,” Clint calls out helpfully to Phil’s disappearing (and incredibly sexy) back. In not quite as much of a rush as he’s fully aware of what the scenario is likely to be, Clint also leaves the shower wrapping a towel round his waist. He joins Phil at the entryway watching as Lucky stares at them from the kitchen worktop while gulping the last of the large pizza almost choking in his haste to finish it before they try to take it away, a throwback to the days when he had to gorge himself on any stolen food.

“There’s a reason why he’s called Pizza Dog,” Phil says sadly. Standing behind him, Clint rests his chin on Phil’s shoulder.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he replies actually sounding contrite. Phil reaches down to take Clint’s hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“Seriously, how the fuck did he even get up there?” Clint asks amazed, not so much at the height but the fact that he didn’t slide off the edge with the momentum of a leap onto the countertop.

“It’s pizza,” says Phil as though that explains everything, and actually, it does. “Nothing’s sacred. I once saw him take on a dog twice his size to get a half-eaten slice of mouldy pizza from a dumpster.”

“I guess I thought it would be safe.” In his defence, Clint hadn’t really been thinking at all when he’d returned to the apartment. He had intended using the money from Phil’s wallet to catch a Greyhound leaving for somewhere other than here when he realized he was being an asshole and that he should at least try to give Phil some sort of explanation. The pizza was supposed to be an apology (even if unknowingly Phil actually paid for it).

“You remember I had to put a lock on the refrigerator because he kept breaking into it if there was leftover pizza.”

Clint nods into Phil’s shoulder, his chin bumping against the firm muscle. There’s silence for a few moments until Phil asks, “What was it?"

“All the meats.”

Phil sighs again. “His farts are going to stink.”

“With extra cheese”

“Oh great! And he’s going to be backed up!”

Clint bites his lip trying not to laugh.

“It’s not funny. You can take him out until he gets rid of that shit. It’s gonna be huge!”

Clint snorts.

“And you can tell Mrs Delmonico tomorrow.” That sobers Clint quicker than anything else Phil could say. She’s going to be pissed and give him one hell of a lecture. Still his mind is taken off it for a few moments as Lucky decides that’s the very moment to fall off the counter in a pizza-filled daze.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In between nips and licks, Clint pants into Phil’s mouth, “Fuck me. Please, Phil.”
> 
> Breathing just as heavily, Phil rests his forehead against Clint’s brushing his thumbs across Clint’s cheekbones. “Want you. Need you.”

Phil’s watching from the truck with a smirk as Clint stands with his head bowed, the very picture of remorse, while Mrs Delmonico chastises him with much gesticulation. He continues to watch, his amusement turning to disbelief as she disappears into her duplex and returns handing him a brown-paper grocery bag before hugging and sending him on his way with a playful cuff to the back of his head.

Clint climbs into the truck with a huge grin plastered to his face and a large bag containing freshly baked Cannoli. Phil rolls his eyes and shakes his head as he pulls out from the driveway giving Mrs Delmonico a wave.

“So…?”

Clint dips his hand into the bag, pulls out a pastry and takes a huge bite of it covering his nose and mouth in cream. He hums with pleasure.

“You’re gross!” laughs Phil.

Clint grins back and in between noisy chews of pastry gives him a summary of the conversation mostly the parts in Clint’s favour.

“Mrs D says I need fattening up and you’re not taking care of me properly letting me eat pizza all the time even if it is her nephew’s wife’s father who owns the restaurant. And if we let Lucky eat pizza again she’ll report us to the animal humane society but I guess maybe she was joking about that. She’s also got a home remedy that’ll help Lucky have a crap but she says if he gets it before Friday she’ll evict you.”

“Me?” Phil’s hurt. Somehow he’s turned into the villain of the piece. He’s half watching Clint stuff the remaining pastry into his mouth, it’s both fascinating and horrifying at the same time, and half watching the road.

“Yeah…she says she’s not picking up the “merda morbido the remedy will loosen from the dog’s ass”. Man! She’s hilarious. Fuck that Cannoli’s amazing!” he says pulling out another one cramming it in his mouth.

“Yeah and there better be one left for me,” Phil tells him with a warning note in his voice. He misses what Clint says (a mouth full of Italian pastry is not easy to understand) but can’t miss the eye roll and being flipped off with a middle finger covered in cream.

Phil grabs his hand and, keeping his eyes on the road, places Clint’s finger against his lips drawing it into his mouth bit by it. He slowly runs the flat of his tongue over it while sucking the cream off moving it back and forth as though it was Clint’s cock in his mouth. Clint’s eyes become wide and he almost chokes on the last of the Cannoli. He doesn’t even notice when the cream from the piece still in his hand drops onto his lap; his cock has gone rock hard in his jeans. Phil pulls his finger from his mouth with a wet pop.

“So, brat, you gonna save one for me?” Phil’s voice is gravelly and his own dick is nudging against his zipper. He risks a glance at Clint, who’s sitting in the passenger seat open-mouthed, skin flushed and horny as fuck. They’re approaching the truck stop and Clint groans “Pull over.”

“Clint, I’m not...”

“Pull the fuck over,” he pleads.

“I am not blowing you in the truck stop,” Phil tells him in no uncertain terms.

“Phil, please pull over.” Phil takes another look at him and knows the kid’s moments away from coming. He takes pity on him and pulls into the truck stop.

Clint opens the door before the truck comes to a complete stop and jumps out dropping the bag onto the seat. He limps to the doorway and disappears inside. Punk ass brat or not, Phil actually feels pretty guilty about getting Clint into that state with no way to relieve him short of blowing him or jacking him off in a semi-public place. But in all honesty he didn’t think it would have quite the effect it did. However he doesn’t feel so bad that he’s not going to have one of Mrs Delmonico’s pastries. By the time he finishes the remains of Clint’s and another one from the bag (fuck they are good!) Clint’s back and climbing into the truck. He glares at Phil as he sits down and adjusts himself before putting a small paper bag in Phil’s glove compartment.

“Prick!” he growls snatching the grocery bag out of Phil’s lap. Phil lets out a bark of laughter and drives off heading to work with Clint refusing to speak to him. He’s still grinning when they pull into the site yard until he sees the car parked near the office shack; a sleek black Audi S8 – Jessup’s attorney.

Clint can’t miss the change in Phil as they enter the yard; his hands are gripping the wheel hard enough for his knuckles to turn white and emotions in the truck had suddenly gone from chilled and laid-back to a volatile tension that bubbled and seethed in the cab – all in a fraction of a second.  He looks round at Phil concern etched on his face but neither of them speak, they’re good at that.

Phil pulls up in his usual place trying to act as though nothing is wrong. As far as he knows nothing is wrong, McCormick could be here for a multitude of reasons but the presence of the intimidating black S8 makes him feel uneasy. It’s been a long time since the lawyer appeared on site, certainly before noon and the last time the cops arrived within hours with some damning accusations and eye-opening questions. Yeah, his boss has a certain reputation but he’d always played fair with Coulson and had never involved him in any of his slightly more “morally-flexible” activities. He just hopes yesterday’s events don’t make things difficult for Jessup and give the cops a reason to delve into his business interests again.

Clint makes to follow Phil into the office shack but Phil has slipped into Junior Foreman role and tells him to get his gear sorted and get ready for the day ahead. He’ll see him when he does his morning brief. Clint tries not to show his hurt and disappointment. He knows when they’re at work their relationship is non-negotiable; Phil is the boss even though Clint still tries his damnedest to wind him up at every opportunity. But after yesterday he wants, actually he isn’t sure what he wants, but he knows if the shit is going to hit the fan he’s going to make sure it doesn’t stick to Phil.

Phil realises Clint’s upset but he doesn’t want him any more involved in this that he already is, and the best way to do that is to keep him busy and keep him out of sight. He lays his hand gently on Clint’s forearm giving him what he hopes is a reassuring smile. Sadly though, Jessup seems to have other ideas.

“Good! You two are here. Asses inside.”

Phil sighs inwardly but defers to Jessup. “For once, brat, keep your mouth shut. Okay?” he murmurs into Clint’s ear as they moved towards the open door of the shack.

Clint doesn’t know if it’s Phil’s proximity to him, close enough to feel the heat from his body, or his warm breath in his ear as he warns Clint to behave or just the fact he’s nervous as hell but he can’t suppress the shiver that runs through him. He curses silently in his head; now is not the time for his body to act up like a horny teenager even though he is a horny teenager.

“Take a load off,” rumbles Jessup and pulls out a chair with his foot sliding it towards Phil indicating with a nod that he should take it.

Apparently there isn’t much Phil can control in his life at the moment but this is something he can and he remains standing in an ‘at ease’ position, an extension from the ROTC.  “I’m fine, sir. Thanks.”

Jessup shrugs and leans his ass against the front of his desk while McCormick sits in Jessup’s seat behind it. Phil has a feeling the placement is deliberate but he isn’t sure if it’s to provide support or to undermine confidence.

Clint has never been of a mind to think with the type of logic that Phil does and so drops himself into the seat that Phil had politely refused, legs wide with a smirk on his face. His train of thought, as it's been for most of his life, is self-preservation. He may be quaking on the inside but there was no need for the whole world to know.

“Nice wheels, dude,” he tells McCormick with a sly wink. “Bet she rides like a high-class hooker’s mouth; warm, responsive and makes you jizz in your tighty whities.”

If he’s hoping to shock the lawyer he’s going to be severely disappointed. On a scale of 1 to 10 for intimidation Clint didn’t even rate as far as McCormick’s concerned. He looks at Clint for a second then focuses his gaze on Phil making his feelings pretty clear. Clint crosses his arms and pouts.

McCormick asks, “How much do you know about Garrett?”

“He’s a fucking prick!” answers Clint.

Phil rolls his eyes but he doesn’t argue the point. He goes to college with Garrett and knows what an asshole the guy can be. But he could also be fairly decent and a good fun to be around when he wasn’t being a jerk which is why he helped him get the job at the construction site, something he regrets very much right now. “Obviously not as much as I thought,” he admits sadly.

“When I got Mr Jessup’s call I looked into his background a bit more...I know people,” he says with a smile by way of explanation at Phil’s raised eyebrow. “Apparently there are three ways this can go. One – he’ll involve the police putting a spin on the incident to make you the criminal; two – he’ll get his friends to extract some sort of retribution or three...”

“He’ll do both,” finishes Phil for him.

McCormick acknowledges his guess with an incline of his head. “Mr Jessup has informed me of what occurred yesterday but I’d like you to take me through it. I need to know exactly what happened so we can work out our defense strategy if it  should be required.”

Phil hesitates then nods and begins to talk the lawyer through what happened as clearly as he can remember basically sticking to the story he told Jessup on the phone; Garrett was being an asshole, had damaged some gear in the toolshed witnessed by Clint, and Phil had lost his patience along with his temper. It wasn’t great but it was the best he had if he wanted to keep Clint’s true involvement out of it.

Clint, whose eyes have been flitting between the three men, is only vaguely listening to them. His mind goes back to Garrett grabbing his elbow putting pressure on it until it the pain was almost unbearable and his free hand subconsciously drops to it holding it protectively. The way that Garrett had looked at him, the gleam in his eye with the undercurrent of violence makes his shiver but from fear rather than anticipation, the way he feels with Phil - but then Phil's never been violent. He was grateful that Coulson had walked in because he knows the most likely scenario if he hadn’t; it’s happened to him before when there was no-one looking out for him and it scares him how close it was to happening again.

The force with which Phil had gone for Garrett was chilling but he’d done it for him, for Clint and even now he feels a thrill run through him at the thought of it. He protected him; he pounded someone into the ground for him; he’s maybe even fucked up his life for him. Fuck! Phil could end up in jail and it’s his fault. College Boy’s life is fucked and it’s his fault. The thrill turns to a shiver and suddenly he feels cold.

“Wait! That’s not what happened.”

The three men turn their heads and stare at him; Jessup’s and his lawyer’s gazes are questioning but Phil shoots him a warning look. He repeats himself for Jessup’s and McCormick’s benefit but his eyes remain on Phil.

“That’s not what happened, not all of it. He was...he was going to hurt me. In the tool shed. Phil stopped him. He’s the only reason he stopped.” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper and it’s that which causes McCormick to pause for a moment, hating himself when he does eventually speak. He doesn’t know the kid, but he does know fear when he sees it.

“Well now! That’s it, that’s your self-defence. In fact it’s perfect.”

Eyes still on Clint, Phil says one word, “No.”

“Mr. Coulson, seriously, it’s perfect. You can use force to defend someone under your protection from assault and as Mr. Jessup’s junior foreman in charge of the site at the time of the incident, Mr. Barton is under your protection at work.”

“I said no.”

“It’s not your decision to make.” This time it’s Clint who cuts in.

“I don’t want you involved in this.”

“So your best idea is, ‘I hit him because he was being an asshole!’ Sound fucking plan, College Boy!”

“It’s the one I’m going with, yeah.” Phil’s calm and composed where Clint’s angry again, his emotions beginning to break through.

“You’re a fucking asshole!” The vehemence with which Clint says it shocks Jessup and it’s then everything falls into place and he realises their relationship is something more than junior foreman / employee. Not that he really gives a fuck but, well...fuck!

McCormick ignores the outburst and tries to reason with Phil. “Mr. Coulson, Phil, if the police charge you with aggravated assault and if you’re found guilty, the sentence is up to 20 years in prison so all your hard work and effort up to this point in your life means, if you’ll excuse the expression, jack shit.

“Given the fact you have a clean record both here and at home, you’re scoring excellent grades at college with just one semester to go, you’re in the ROTC where you’re proving yourself to be an exceptional cadet and when you finish college, you currently have an officer’s place guaranteed for you in the Army Rangers you might, and I stress might get a reduced sentence. But the fact remains you will have a criminal record and will still serve some serious time. I urge that you think about this and think about it carefully.”

Phil swallows and clenches his jaw until the muscles ache then nods. “Nevertheless, sir, that’s my reason. Garrett was being an asshole; he pushed a little further than normal, or perhaps I’d had enough of his bullshit, I'm not sure but either way, I hit him.” Phil’s voice is still quiet and, outwardly at least, he remains imperturbable.

Jessup looks at Phil impressed by his demeanour and his unwavering loyalty to Clint but equally he’s itching to give him a kick up the ass for his stubbornness. He knows if the kid gets out of this mess, the men under his command will follow him to hell and back, and Coulson being the man he’s proving to be, will make damn sure they do get back even if he doesn’t. This whole situation was fucked up and it’s killing him to watch and this is before the cops get involved; _if_ the cops get involved.

As for McCormick, frustrated as he is with Phil’s response, he finds he’s warming to the young man standing before him more and more. When he researched Garrett’s history he had found him to be a slimy turd that probably deserved everything that Coulson had given him but he knows how these things can go in court and they don't always go the way they should. He has to try to convince Phil to tell the truth.

“Oh fuck this!” yells Clint pushing himself off the seat knocking it over in the process. “You want to throw your life away, Ivy League, that’s fine but don’t fucking do it for me. I’m not worth it. I’m not worth it,” he repeats in a whisper, his breath hitching in his throat as he pushes past Phil and storms out of the shack.

If there was ever a doubt in Jessup’s mind that there is something intimate between the two men it’s gone for ever as Phil’s head drops and his shoulders slump as he watches Clint leave. “Coulson, the site’s not going to run itself. Why don’t you go do something about that?”

Phil straightens his posture again and nods; the crew will be waiting for their morning briefing. He moves over to the document holders on the shack wall and picks out that day’s job sheets, along with permit to work cards and a safety information update. As he turns to leave he stops and looks back at the two men. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do but Barton doesn’t deserve to be pulled into this. I lost my temper and he shouldn’t have to pay for that. I’m willing to take my chances in court...but not at his expense.”

He turns back to step out of the shack and stops, swearing loudly. Jessup joins him at the door and following Phil’s line of sight, sees Clint climbing up the outside of the scaffolding against one of the houses with no fear and no safety equipment.

Jessup claps his huge bear paw on Phil’s shoulder and snorts, “I guess it’s business as usual then.”

Phil makes to head after the brat but Jessup keeps his hand where it is and pulls him back. “Nah…you go do the briefing. I’ll sort that little fucker out. I need you to survey plot six – take him with you; might calm him down.”

“Not so sure that’s a good idea,” Phil tells him. “Maybe Ned can do it.”

Jessup squeezes Phil’s shoulder in a gesture of reassurance and tells him gently. “You need to clear the air otherwise he’s going to keep pulling stunts like this. He’s a headstrong little shit, kinda like someone else I know...that’s you in case you’re wondering.”

Phil huffs out a short laugh despite himself.

“The longer you leave it...” He lets the rest of the sentence hang and Phil completes it in his head ‘the more difficult it’s going to be' He sighs resigned to the fact that his boss is right. “Guess I’m back on brat-sitting duty then.”

 

***

 

Phil’s almost finished the briefing when Clint slinks into the break shack with a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth. He stands at the back with his shoulders pressed against the wall, his arms folded across his chest glowering at Phil. Phil doesn’t so much as pause or acknowledge the fact that Clint’s late; he knows a confrontation is what the brat wants and that’s not gonna happen as far as he’s concerned. After finishing the safety announcement he distributes the various job sheets and PTWs and the crew disperses leaving Ned, the crew’s Chargehand, and Clint behind.

“So what about me, boss,” Clint sneers peering at Phil through half-closed eyes as the smoke drifts upwards between them partially-obscuring his vision. Again Phil ignores him and looks at Ned to find out what he needs.

Ned rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably then scratches his head. He obviously wants to say something but not in front of Clint.

“Wait for me outside, Barton. Joy of joys, you’re at plot six with me this morning.”

“Fuck,” Clint mutters under his breath. He rolls his eyes and gives a long-suffering sigh as he pushes himself off the wall and slouches outside.

Ned smirks. “He was getting better for a while,” he tells Phil. “Guess this shit with Garrett’s dropped him back some.”

Phil nods at the observation, Ned has no idea. He doesn’t speak letting the older man get to the point in his own time. “Me and the guys wanted to let you know that what you did with Garrett…well, if you need us to say we saw what happened, then we will.”

Phil frowns for a second then feels like an idiot as it becomes clear what Ned’s offering; the crew is saying if it comes to it, they’ll lie for Phil and testify against Garrett. It’s his turn to rub the back of his neck self-consciously, overwhelmed by what they’re offering to do. He ducks his head and looks up at Ned, “I appreciate it but I can’t ask you to do that.”

“I don’t recall you askin’. Offer’s there if you need it. Garrett’s a mean motherfucker. And cruel. He used to act real friendly; ask about your family, how your weekend was, what was going on with you - until he found a weak spot. Then he’d pick away at it like a scab and once it started to bleed, he was happier than a pig in shit.”

Phil’s expression said it all - sickened and angry. Jesus, what had he brought to the site? “Is that why we lost Charlie last week?”

Ned juts his chin at Phil in answer to his question. “Yeah but it was nothing to do with the fact he only had three fingers. Garrett found out his boy is queer. Wouldn’t leave it alone. Every morning he asked him, ‘Hey, Charlie, how’s your faggot son?’ He took it for long enough, tried to smile and make a joke out of it the first coupla times then after a few months in it got too much and...well, he quit.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil tells him truly regretful at the chaos Garrett’s caused. “I didn’t realise.”

“None of us did. Garrett was a sneaky fucker that way. Did it when no-one was around. Charlie told me the day he left. Told me not to trust him far as I c’n spit. Told me to watch out for the kid. He thought something weird was going on there, just didn’t know what. But the kid never wanted to be alone with him. Shit! You okay?”

The blood in Phil’s ears roars and he has difficulty focussing on what Ned’s telling him. He can feel the rage running through his system again at the thought of Garrett being anywhere near Clint. And now finding out he’d been afraid of Garrett all this time fires all his protective instincts making him want to lash out.

“I’m fine. It’s just the more I find out about Garrett…” he shakes his head trying to get himself under control but his heart’s hammering in his chest and he has to concentrate to keep his breathing even. Right now all he wants to do is find Clint and claim him. His blood is pulsing to mine. Mine. MINE. He needs to get out of the shack and soon before he completely loses his shit.

It’s a hard won battle but Phil reigns in his emotions and holds out his hand to the Chargehand. Ned smiles as he takes it, a gentleman’s agreement then. Quietly Phil gives his thanks to both Ned and the crew and with Ned in front of him, they leave the shack. Clint’s nowhere to be found.

“He’s a good kid, just kinda...willful.” Ned comments looking at the cigarette butt ground into the dirt where Clint’s obviously waited; for a short time at least.

“That’s one word,” Phil agrees still trying to keep himself under control. Clint is back to pushing all his buttons again.

Nodding to the older man, Phil heads for plot six as instructed earlier by Jessup. Abruptly he stops and turns back to his truck where he lays his papers and the house keys on the hood. He opens the door and reaches into the glove compartment to look in the paper bag Clint put in there earlier. His breathing becomes heavy now that he’s had his suspicions confirmed and he shoves the contents into the pocket of his jeans putting the bag back where he found it. He’s just about to shut the door when he spots a t-shirt lying on the back seat. Chewing his lip he stares at it then finally reaches over and snatches it up tucking into into the back of his jeans, Hands shaking, he slams the truck door and makes his way to the plot.

As he reaches the house he notices that the door has been left open to swing carelessly back and forth against the jam. Phil looks at the keys in his hand. Unless Jessup opened up earlier, very unlikely, the little shit’s already inside. He flicks his eyes to the upper level windows and sees one that’s slightly ajar. Taking a deep breath he enters.

Clint’s not hiding, in fact if anything he’s waiting for Phil. This time he’s going to tell him in person he’s leaving. He hears the door open and close gently then footsteps crossing the hallway to the kitchen where he lingers. His heart begins to thump threatening to burst from his chest as the adrenaline courses through him. Fuck he hates confrontation. Maybe he should have just left but he doesn’t have much and most of it is at Phil’s place.

“Don’t worry, Ivy League, I’ll pick up my things and leave tonight.” He doesn’t turn round. Once again he doesn’t want to see Phil’s face.

The footsteps halt and for a moment there’s silence. It’s so loud it’s almost deafening. The air seems to be thick and crackling with tension like it was in the truck but amplified with its intensity.

“Why?”

Phil’s voice is quiet but raw and throaty and Clint feels the hair on the back of his neck and arms rise up as though he’s in the middle of an electrical storm. Maybe he is.

He turns to face Phil and what he sees, even from across the room, knocks the breath from his lungs. Phil’s eyes are blown and his whole body’s taut as though he’s holding himself back. The muscles in his jaw are tight and working hard as he apparently fights to control something deep within. A shiver runs up his spine from the intense look Phil's giving him; he has never been more turned on.

Clint’s heart is now racing and the blood pounds in his ears. He drops his eyes to Phil’s crotch and sure enough his dick is straining against his jeans. Clint’s mouth goes dry, his cock goes hard and all he can do is stare. The fight or flight response is screaming at him; he wants to run but he wants Phil to catch him; he wants to fight but he wants Phil to subdue him. He wants Phil to fuck him.

Phil approaches Clint slowly recognising the turmoil raging inside the younger man; it’s raging inside him too. He stops just within Clint’s space and almost groans out loud as he scents the brat’s arousal. Placing his palms flat against the wall on either side of Clint’s head, Phil leans into his neck and whispers his name.

It goes straight to Clint’s cock and he shudders pressing his face against Phil’s cheek while his hands move to Phil’s hips gripping them tight. He can’t contain the moan that’s built up behind his lips and it escapes into Phil’s ear causing him to inhale sharply and his skin to flush with arousal.

Hands still on the wall, Phil places his thigh between Clint’s legs, pressing it gently against his dick pulling another long, drawn out moan from the brat. He can feel his hardness through his jeans more so when Clint grinds against him.

Clint drops one of his hands to Phil’s cock, rubbing him along his length making him gasp and shiver beneath his touch. He grabs Phil’s belt buckle and with trembling fingers tugs it undone before snapping it free from the loops of his jeans. Clint fumbles for a moment but finally manages to pop the button and carefully pulls down the zipper reaching in to touch Phil through his briefs. He grunts and can’t stop the involuntary jerk of his hips as Clint’s fingers brush against his rigid shaft.

Encouraged by Phil’s reaction, Clint slips his hand behind the fabric to touch the soft skin of his cock. Phil releases a moan that comes from deep within his chest as Clint wraps his fingers round him gently stroking him or at least as much as he can within the confines of underwear and jeans. When he rolls his thumb over Phil’s head dragging the pad through the pre-come Phil loses it, dropping his hands from the wall to Clint’s face pulling it to his own. Suddenly it’s frantic; wet messy kissing, clashing teeth, bumping noses.

In between nips and licks, Clint pants into Phil’s mouth, “Fuck me. Please, Phil.”

Breathing just as heavily, Phil rests his forehead against Clint’s brushing his thumbs across Clint’s cheekbones. “Want you. Need you.”

His hands are slightly steadier than Clint’s as he unfastens and yanks the belt from his jeans; in the same motion he has Clint undone and his dick springing free from his...from his nothing! Yet again the brat is going commando. Not that Phil’s complaining, one less layer. Phil smirks as he runs the palm of his hand over Clint’s leaking slit gathering the pre-come and using it to help his hand glide along his length.

Clint lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a whimper and a moan. A few more strokes and he’s almost at the point where he can’t hold it anymore. He lifts his trembling hand and runs his thumb across Phil's lips. Phil obligingly parts them opening enough for Clint to slip his middle finger in.

"Make it real wet," he instructs Phil with a husky rasp.

Not taking his eyes off Clint, Phil takes his hand in his own and closes his mouth around the finger enveloping it completely and repeats everything he did in the truck earlier. Trapping it between his lips he pulls it back so that only the tip is inside then opens his mouth to slide it all the way in again over the flat of his tongue sucking on it like it's Clint's dick. He keeps doing it until the younger man's finger is soaking and his breath has become ragged.

Reluctantly Clint pulls away from him and moves over to the kitchen counter where he tugs down his jeans baring his ass to Phil. Reaching round between his legs he circles his hole with the finger Phil has just sucked on and pushes the tip in until it slowly disappears all the way.

Phil licks his lips at sight of Clint bent over stretching his ass open. He drops his hand to his cock and strokes himself in time to Clint’s movements as he preps himself for Phil. His cock is painfully hard and the thought of sliding into Clint… and it’s then he remembers the contents in the pocket of his jeans. He reaches in and with a slight limp goes over to Clint laying down the items on the surface. Clint turns his head and snorts.

“Fucker!” he grins looking at the bottle of lube and packet of condoms.

“I’m not the one who bought them this morning,” Phil retorts. He leans over and growls in Clint’s ear, “Why don’t you let me?”

Clint shivers again and closes his eyes. He nods straightening himself before leaning against the counter his hands grasping the edge. Phil snaps open the lid of the bottle and pours a generous amount of lube over his hand making sure his fingers are covered. Gently he spreads Clint’s cheeks and circles his hole then breaches it with his finger. Clint groans as it slides in. It feels so much better when it’s Phil.

“I’m okay with one,” Clint tells him. “Need more.”

Phil gives another push brushing against Clint’s prostate making him whimper before he pulls out completely. Carefully pushing in two fingers Phil realises it’s not going to take as much prep as he thought. While not loose exactly, Clint isn’t tight thanks to the fuck they had the previous night. He closes his eyes as he remembers lying on the bed while Clint slid down his length then rode him hard until they were a sweaty, tangled, satisfied mess. Clint grunts as Phil pushes a little too hard with the memory. He squeezes the back of Clint’s neck and apologises.

“More,” Clint responds panting. “Need more. Need you.”

Phil’s cock, still free and loose, nods in agreement. Once again, after a couple of thrusts, Phil withdraws to return with three lubed-up fingers. This time Clint gasps a little as he enters.

“Too much?” Phil asks concerned stilling his hand.

“No. Don’t stop. It’s fine. I’m fine.” Clint’s voice is slurred and he can only speak in short sentences.  Phil realises it’s not going to take much to bring him over the edge. He continues pushing in, gently twisting and stretching. Clint’s breath is coming in short gasps as Phil preps him, widening his hole enough to take his cock. He doesn’t want to rush, to cause Clint any pain, but fuck he needs to be inside him soon. Clint tells him he’s ready by whining his name pleading with him over and over to fuck him.

Finally convinced, Phil removes his hand making Clint whimper with the temporary but aching loss. He strips out of his checked shirt and tugs his t-shirt off throwing them on the floor; the spare t-shirt at his back he lays on the surface of the counter within easy reach for later. He drops his jeans and underwear then reaches for the condoms tearing one open and rolling it before on slicking himself up with more lube.

Clint braces himself against the counter as Phil rubs his cock against Clint’s hole nudging it gently with his head. Clint groans and tells him to get the fuck in there already. Phil happily obliges. One hand grips onto Clint’s hips the other rests on his shoulder as he carefully breaches Clint’s entrance. Inch by slow inch he pushes inside. Clint moans and pushes himself back against Phil forcing him deeper until he’s level against Clint’s ass. Phil releases a groan as he sinks in. He pauses to let Clint get used to his size and pulls almost all the way out to push slowly forward again building the pace until he sets a rhythm that’s almost perfect.

Phil shoves Clint’s t-shirt up his back as he fucks him, he needs to feel his skin. Understanding, Clint reaches back and yanks it over his head. The instant it’s off Phil leans forward and wraps an arm around him holding Clint to his naked chest plunging hard and deep; his other hand closes around  Clint’s cock and begins to pump it. The brat’s keening beneath him, he’s so close to coming. A few more strokes from Phil and he’s gone, biting his hand to stifle the scream as his hips jerk in time to the come spurting into Phil’s now motionless fist. Finally spent, Clint collapses onto the countertop pulling Phil with him.

Phil just manages to keep his balance by slapping his hand on the counter and with few more energetic thrusts, arm still wrapped around Clint, Phil’s right behind him. Through gritted teeth he groans long and hard as he comes, his body shaking with aftershocks, his chest heaving as he catches his breath. He drops forwards on top of the younger man to tenderly nuzzle his neck.

“Fuck, brat! You’re either going to kill me or get me fired,” he whispers softly.

Clint hums with pleasure. It’s not the most comfortable Clint’s ever been, pinned under Phil against the cold, hard surface of the kitchen counter but at this moment there’s nowhere on this earth he’d rather be.

 

 


End file.
